


All Shall Return to Light

by bobbiewickham



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon-era AU, Genderswap, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:21:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Combeferre, rogue scion of a line of French Watchers, learns that a Slayer has been called in the South of France, he decides to set out and find her himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"A new Slayer has been called."

Combeferre's uncle spoke in a low voice but though Combeferre, sitting in his armchair, pretended absorption in his volume of Fourier, he heard each word clearly. More than that--it seemed to Combeferre that he _saw_ each word as if it had been chiseled into shining granite. 

Combeferre did not hear his father's response, but his uncle kept talking as if in reply, "Not too far from here, by the look of things. Several families were slaughtered last week in Aiguilhe. It was obviously the work of vampires. The corpses were dragged from their homes, arranged round the Saint Michel chapel to frighten visitors--though the vampires did not dare actually enter it." 

Combeferre clutched his Fourier in a white-knuckled grip, staring at the pages but seeing nothing at all. "How do you know the Slayer is there?" Combeferre's father asked. 

"Was, not is. We think she left---fled to shelter with family elsewhere, perhaps, or to a convent. She may be a Slayer, but she is still a woman. A sudden, unexpected confrontation with pure unvarnished evil can be too much for the frailty of the sex," his uncle Henri said with a shrug. "But we know she was there for two reasons. First, we have witness accounts, though these are very jumbled. They say that a vampire gang of more than twenty first attacked their homes--but, by the time the vampires left, there were only four of them remaining. The vampires attacked at night and by surprise. It is unlikely in the extreme that ordinary humans with no knowledge of the occult could so deplete their ranks under such conditions."

"And the other reason?" Combeferre asked, abandoning the pretense of inattention, and looking up at his uncle, who was standing with his back to the fire. 

His uncle looked at him with a smile. "Ah, Sébastien," he said, "I had wondered if you were listening. I should have known, you always are. The other reason is that our seeress has told us. There is a living Slayer in the South of France. The only question is, where exactly is she? And, more to the point, who is she?" Uncle Henri shook his head sadly. "We do not even know who the last Slayer was," he said, "or where she lived. Nor do my acquaintances with the Watchers in England know, though they have been even more close-mouthed than usual with us since Bonaparte. But we do know that whatever power it is that chooses the Slayer, it pays no attention to the girl's virtue or fitness for such a holy purpose. After all, some Slayers have been kitchen-maids, or prostitutes, or even murderesses. Some have been heathens and savages. Finding the Slayer is only the first step. Making her know her duty will be the more difficult part." He took a sip of brandy. "At least this time, she's a Frenchwoman."

"Have you been searching for her, then?" Combeferre asked, making his voice as light as possible. 

"Yes," Uncle Henri said, frowning slightly, "and so far we have found very little, but...we are still making inquiries, mostly in the area surrounding Aiguilhe, but we will fan out from there." He shook his head. "I do feel sure we will find her. Such a woman cannot hope to stay hidden for long, and we have our best men investigating the matter." Uncle Henri took another sip of brandy. "Ah, well, let us speak of lighter matters--when do you return to Paris, my boy?" 

"In four days' time," Combeferre said. 

His father looked over and frowned. "I thought you were staying on another week?" 

"The letter I received from my surgery lecturer this morning," Combeferre said, improvising wildly, "was an invitation to observe while he performs a new experimental surgical technique, and he is doing it three weeks from now. So I thought I would leave in four days." 

"Ah," Combeferre's father brightened. "That sounds like quite an honor." 

"Indeed," Uncle Henri said, "you are obviously excelling in your studies!" He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder. "Well, all the best, my boy."

Combeferre felt guilty about lying to them, but he knew there was no other choice. He could not allow the Slayer to fall into the custody of the French Watchers--not when they had such reactionary views about society, which translated directly into inhumane and unjust notions about the role of the Slayer herself.

Combeferre had been fifteen years old when he had learned of his family's secret, guarded for generations: they were one of the French families who were Watchers, sworn to a sacred trust to guide and instruct vampire slayers in their battle against the forces of evil. 

He had been sixteen when he had learned that his views on the best way to uphold that trust differed strongly from those of his uncle, the senior Watcher of their line, and seventeen when he had learned to hold his peace on the subject rather than argue. Argument, in this particular case, was worse than futile--it notified the archconservative Watchers of a potential rogue in their midst. It had been a bitter moment for the young Sébastien Combeferre when he had decided to stop attempting to change the older Watchers' minds by rational persuasion, and start taking secretive action against those who did not wish to even consider what he was saying, but he thought perhaps it was an inevitable one. 

It meant that, now that the Slayer had been called so close to home, Combeferre would have to find her himself. 

But first he would need to extract more information from his uncle, which would require some delicacy. Combeferre could not very well go searching the entire South of France on his own, asking every person he encountered if they had just so happened to see a young girl fighting vampires. No, he must find out where the Watchers had already searched. They were not utter fools, misguided as they were. 

The next morning, he casually asked his uncle, who was staying with Combeferre's parents for a visit, once more about the search for the Slayer. 

"She must have come from one of the families killed at Aiguilhe," Uncle Henri said. "The vampires went there specifically to hunt her. There is no Slayer there, and our seeress tells us she was not among the dead. The Aiguilhe witnesses tell us that none of their neighbors is missing, save the dead families, so she must come from them." 

"Well, then, that should make things easy for you," Combeferre said, hiding his dismay. "Surely you have found out which families had daughters of the appropriate age to be called as a Slayer." 

"Yes," Uncle Henri said. "Several of them did...but they were all families of some property and prosperity. It ought not to be difficult to track the travels of a solitary young girl brought up in such a fashion, yet we still have not found her." 

"Perhaps she was taken prisoner by the vampires?" That was a hideous thought, but it was no good flinching from it. 

Uncle Henri shook his head. "No," he said, "The witnesses are very clear on that point. Four vampires left Aiguilhe, heading south, talking loudly about how they would wreak havoc in the future, with no prisoner in tow. The girl must have fled in terror after seeing her family slaughtered, but we do not know to where. We know where the slaughtered families' nearest relations are, though, and our investigators are traveling to question them." 

"And...is someone searching for the four remaining vampires?" Surely someone was, surely even the Watchers would not sit back and allow vampires to commit mayhem while they focused solely on the Slayer--

"No," Uncle Henri said with a frown, "the search for the Slayer must come first, and all of our men are devoted to that task." Combeferre wondered if the Slayer herself would agree with that, after seeing the destruction wrought by the vampires--and then an idea struck him. 

He mulled it over as he made his excuses to his uncle and left for his room. It was a somewhat unorthodox idea, but he was accustomed to entertaining such by now. 

Uncle Henri and his fellow Watchers were acting upon the assumption that the Slayer was a scared and confused young girl, that her instinct in the face of grief and sheer terror--terror she had no way of comprehending, terror she could have known nothing about without a Watcher to explain her destiny to her--was to run. 

But what if they were wrong? 

What if the Slayer left Aiguilhe, not in flight, but in _pursuit_? What if her first response to slaughter and destruction was not to protect herself, but to save others by bringing the fiends who killed her family and neighbors to justice? 

Of course, she would know nothing about _how_ to do this. Staking a vampire to the heart with a piece of wood was not something a young girl with no knowledge of the occult, even if equipped with Slayer instincts, would be likely to do by accident. Nor would she necessarily be able to experiment with sunlight upon the vampires, not if they stayed in during the day. And decapitation would not be her first instinct by any means. These were all things she would need to be _taught_. Combeferre grinned suddenly. If he were correct, then he would enjoy teaching such a student. Pursuing the vampires would require immense bravery and persistence and probably cleverness as well, if that were what the girl had in fact done. 

In that case, the correct method of finding the girl would be to hunt the vampires. 

Combeferre frowned. He did not like this plan very much. It offended his scientific mind, requiring the commitment of precious time without sufficient evidence. If he were wrong about the girl's course of action, then in hunting the vampires he would lose time--time that the Watchers could use to find the Slayer before Combeferre could. 

On the other hand, he had no other promising avenues to explore, and there was always an element of risk in any investigation. 

But how had the girl escaped notice? Uncle Henri had said the Watchers had begun their questioning in the town where the original massacre took place. They would have spiraled outwards after that, and would certainly have heard _something_ about a bourgeois young girl traveling alone. That would have been an unusual circumstance. 

_Unless she wore men's garb._ In the dustiest volumes and most cracked parchments of the libraries of his father and Uncle Henri, the volumes that his father and uncle generally ignored, Combeferre had read of Slayers in the past who had disguised themselves as men in order to better fulfill their duty, free of the restrictions their societies placed upon their sex. Even some women who were not Slayers had done that precise thing. 

It would be a sensible solution to the girl's problem, if she could simply pass herself off as a young man. The Watchers had not inquired about young men in the Haute-Loire region, only girls. 

It all fit together beautifully, so beautifully that Combeferre was almost inclined to distrust it--but, he reminded himself, he had no other theory.

He forced himself to think of alternate theories for about two hours, for the sake of intellectual rigor. He came up with several weaker theories, including the Slayer finding a male companion to travel with to be less conspicuous, and the Aiguilhe witnesses lying to the Watchers and hiding the Slayer from them, but no theory seemed more consistent with the available evidence than this one: that the Slayer, possibly disguised as a man, had left Aiguilhe in pursuit of the vampires who had murdered her family and neighbors and were planning to murder others. 

This was the theory, then. He would go to Aiguilhe, which was south of Combeferre's family home, and travel further south from there, seeking out the Slayer. And he would do all of this without his family's knowledge. 

It was a good thing Combeferre had always been frugal with his allowance and had saved much of it over the years. 

A week and half later, in the small hours of the morning, Combeferre found himself at an inn in Goudet, deep in conversation with the innkeeper's wife. 

She was an older peasant woman, perhaps prone to believing old wives' tales--but old wives' tales, Combeferre knew, were often how knowledge of the occult was passed on and preserved. They should not be dismissed. After studying the old Watcher journals he could get hold of, Combeferre had concluded that Watchers often came to grief by disregarding knowledge because of an unjustified contempt for its source. 

"Have you had any problems, Madame, with...odd visitors, at night?" Combeferre finally asked, after the woman had had a few glasses of wine. "Visitors who seem unlike ordinary humans? With disfigured faces, perhaps?" 

She turned to look at him, somewhat blearily. "Odd visitors," she said slowly. "Well..." She gave Combeferre a long, appraising look before answering. "If you mean what I think you mean," she said, "then you'll not take me for a mad old woman when I say yes, we have. We did, a few nights ago, but..." 

"Yes?" Combeferre said, trying to soften the edge of eagerness in his voice. "What happened a few nights ago?" 

"We were lucky," the woman said shortly. "These visitors you mention, they showed up, but then..."

"Madame," Combeferre said, feeling a spike of hope so sharp that it was painful, "did a young person, whether male or female, come here that night, and protect you from the odd visitors?" 

The woman gave him another long look. "Yes," she finally said. "A lad, pretty as a picture. He saved me and my husband and three of our guests, make no mistake about that, and probably more besides, since who knows what those murdering creatures would have gone on to do. Though, mind you, he burned down our stable as he was doing it, and we had just rebuilt it." She sighed. "But it would be foolish to complain about a stable, in light of more important things." 

The Slayer had discovered the efficacy of fire in fighting vampires, then. Well and good, though she would have to learn less disruptive methods of disposal. 

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Combeferre. "Were there people or horses inside the stable when he burned it down?" 

"No," said the woman. 

That was a relief. A Slayer who disrespected property in times of great need was necessary; a Slayer who saw men and men's beasts as mere obstacles in her path would become a monster, if she were not swiftly corrected. 

And now for the most important question. 

"Madame," Combeferre began, "do you know where this young man went, after he left this inn?" 

"The ruins of the Château right here," said the woman, referring to the Château de Beaufort. "He said that those fiends, they had friends, and he wanted to destroy them before they hurt other people." 

Combeferre rose. "Thank you most kindly for your help, Madame." He placed some money, more than he owed her for food and lodgings, on the table, and went out the door. 

When he arrived at the Château's ruins it was not yet dawn, but Combeferre had prepared for this, performing a simple magic that allowed him to see in the dark, and hid his scent and sound from vampire senses. Combeferre was no sorcerer, but he had taken care to learn some basic tricks that would permit him to protect himself. 

What was weighing on him at the moment was the fact that he had never actually had to _use_ those tricks, because he had never had to personally confront a vampire before. Scholarly knowledge was not practical reality. 

He stopped moving when he heard the vampires within the ruins. They were in a part that still had a roof, and from their conversation, Combeferre gleaned that they had just returned to this nest after several days of killings in a village a day's journey away by stagecoach. 

"That was too close for my comfort," one of the vampires said. "It is nearly dawn. I can almost smell it." 

"Oh, stop fussing," said another voice crossly. "We have arrived, after all, and now we are strengthened." 

They bickered in such a fashion for nearly half an hour. Vampires could cooperate with one another, but the Watcher journals and tomes Combeferre had read indicated that they seldom actually _enjoyed_ it. 

Pressing his ear against the wall, Combeferre wondered uneasily where the Slayer had gone. Surely they had not killed her before leaving? Surely she had come here to find them already gone to the other village, and perhaps...lost their trail? She was unaccustomed to pursuing prey, after all. 

Or perhaps she did pursue them, and was killed at the other village for her trouble. 

Combeferre blinked, and turned his gaze away from the wall and to the heavens. He suddenly noticed that some time had passed, that the dawn's light had touched the sky and was growing brighter by the second, infusing the entire world as far as the eye could see with a rich golden sheen. 

All at once, he heard the vampires scream out, in a cacophony of what sounded a great deal like unbearable pain. 

He heard a thump on the ground several lengths away from him. A large stone had fallen from above. Combeferre looked up to the outer roof of the room the vampires were in. 

On top of the roof was a boy with long blond hair, wrenching another stone away. He--no, _she_ , Combeferre corrected himself, for this must be the Slayer--flung the stone to the ground (a good distance from Combeferre, which he appreciated), and turned her attention back to prying up another stone from the roof. 

The vampires' screaming grew louder. They could not flee, Combeferre realized, remembering what he had seen of the ruin on first inspection, for there was no adjoining room with a roof. Fleeing would only burn them faster. His admiration for the Slayer grew. She had planned this well. She must have found their empty nest and studied the ruins before concocting this scheme. 

The Slayer, with a grunt of effort, pulled up another stone, which must have sent another large patch of sunlight into the vampires' nest. She then dropped from the roof into the room below. 

Combeferre frowned, and ran around until he found an opening in the ruins and climbed in. He followed the sounds of screaming until he found the room, with three flame-ridden vampires--

\--and a fourth, who had wisely fled to a shadowy corner when the Slayer had removed the first stone, and who was now exchanging blows with the Slayer. 

And doing far too well at it for Combeferre's comfort. The girl was bold and ingenious, and of course had the strength of a Slayer, but she had no training whatsoever. She fought with ferocity and some native talent, but she was taking too many blows for Combeferre to feel assured of her victory. 

Luckily, Combeferre's spell was still effective, and the fourth vampire's back was to him. He fished in his bag for a short sharp sword (and made a mental note to have a weapon _in hand_ the next time he ran into a room full of vampires) and, with a quick prayer that his knowledge would translate well to practice, sliced through the vampire's neck with one swift move. 

The vampire exploded into dust, and Combeferre was now face to face with the Slayer. 

"Thank you," she said, looking astonished. 

The sun grew brighter, and therefore so did the flames upon the remaining vampires. The Slayer, with all the merciless composure of an avenging angel, watched them burn. 

When they were dust, she turned back to Combeferre. "I am very grateful for your help," she said, "but who are you, and why are you here?" 

Combeferre had a perfect introductory speech composed and memorized for this precise occasion, all of which he naturally forgot the second the Slayer's eyes fixed on his. He would have to improvise. "Mademoiselle--yes, I know you are a woman--my name is Sébastien Combeferre," he said, "and I am here because I felt you may be in need of information about your new powers." 

The girl just looked at him silently. Combeferre took that as an invitation to continue. "Mademoiselle, I realize that this may be difficult for you to believe, but you have been given these abilities as a holy trust--we know not how, or from what heavenly powers precisely, but we know they are meant for the aid and salvation of all of mankind." His Uncle Henri would have put it differently, and talked about social order and the like. But Combeferre was speaking from his heart, and he did not wish to recite the usual reactionary Watcher formulae. "You are a vampire slayer, gifted with superhuman strength and skill so that you may destroy predators of humanity like the ones you just killed. And I am here to be your Watcher--that is, your guide and source of information, if you need one. If you'll have me, that is," Combeferre added awkwardly. 

The girl suddenly smiled. It was wholly unexpected--she had been completely impassive, until that point, and her smile was radiant. Combeferre blinked. "I plainly have need of a guide, since I know nothing of these...creatures, or of any of this," she said. "And you have saved my life today. So I accept your offer with thanks, Monsieur Combeferre." 

Combeferre smiled as well, feeling happier than he had felt in years. "And your name, Mademoiselle?" 

"Of course--forgive my lack of manners, I am still in some...confusion," said the girl. She did not look confused in the slightest, and Combeferre wondered if she were even capable of looking so. She was not loud or improper in her speech or address, but she had a self-possession wholly unusual in anyone her age, which Combeferre judged to be sixteen or seventeen. "My name," she said, "is Gabrielle Enjolras."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter turned out way talkier than I expected, but there will be vampire slaying in the next one, I promise!

They left the room where the vampires’ nest had been, and stood just outside the ruined walls of the château. 

The morning light was now in full blaze. Mademoiselle Enjolras, standing wreathed in its topaz fire, her expression exhausted but exalted, looked everything a Slayer should be: transcendent and implacable and blindingly pure. 

Combeferre could not help feeling awestruck for a moment, but he pushed it aside. He had duties to perform. The first was seeing to the mental state of Mlle Enjolras. "Mademoiselle," he began, "you have suffered tremendously of late. You have my deepest sympathies for what the vampires did to your family." 

Mlle Enjolras looked at him. “What exactly are vampires?” 

“A vampire is the dead body of a human being,” Combeferre said, “devoid of a soul. The human’s soul is departed like any dead person’s, but the body lives on, possessed by a bloodthirsty demon.”

“How are they created?” 

Combeferre’s upbringing had placed enough emphasis on propriety that he felt uneasy discussing blood and carnage with a young lady—even if that young lady was a vampire slayer whom he had just witnessed engaging in some carnage herself. Stifling his discomfort, he said, “A vampire turns a human into a vampire by biting him, drinking his blood until nearly the point of death, and then forcing the human to drink the vampire’s blood in the last seconds before the human’s death. The new vampire will then rise from the human’s grave, in the human’s body, but the human’s soul will be gone—the demon will have taken its place.” 

Mlle Enjolras’s lip curled with disgust, but she said nothing. 

"Before we leave this place," Combeferre said, after a moment, "we will need to discuss many practical matters. If you wish to...to think, or to pray, or to collect yourself in quiet, before wrestling with the demands of the world, and the demands of your powers...well, this would be a good time and place for it. I suggest you stay here as long as you wish. I will leave you alone, if you like, or...if you would like company, if you would like to talk about your family, or..."

Combeferre paused, feeling very clumsy, especially when confronted with the girl's continuing silence. This sort of thing was not his forte at all. But he soldiered on. "Anything at all. Either way, I will wait for you, either here or," he gestured vaguely, "a little further off, to give you some peace and quiet."

Mlle Enjolras said, very quietly, "There is no need for you to go away, Monsieur, but I would like to stay here for some time. I find myself in need of silence." 

"Of course," said Combeferre. 

Mlle Enjolras sat down on a crumbled bit of wall and looked out to the risen sun. Combeferre seated himself a short distance away from her, close enough to be called if she wanted anything, but far enough to give her space for her own thoughts. 

They remained silent, looking off into the sunlit houses and farms in the distance. Combeferre did not notice the time pass. He felt suspended, tranquil, not waiting for anything, not expecting anything, simply being, drenched in the light. 

When Mlle Enjolras stirred, nearly two hours had passed, but Combeferre only knew it because his watch told him so. She came over to stand in front of him, looking very solemn and very composed. He could not tell from her face whether or not she had wept during their long soundless interval. "I believe I am ready to discuss those practical matters you referred to, Monsieur Combeferre." 

"The first question is to decide your living arrangements," Combeferre said. "Is there any family you would like to stay with?"

Mlle Enjolras narrowed her eyes at him, frowning. "Even if there were, would that be possible? Surely, if I am to continue with this sacred duty you spoke of so eloquently, for the _aid and salvation of all humanity_ , I cannot live with family. They would create difficulties for the fulfillment of my role. Surely I must live apart." 

"That would be the most convenient path in many ways, Mademoiselle. But if you wish to live with your surviving relatives and fulfill your role as the Slayer at the same time, we will find a way to accomplish that. I can speak to your family, explain things to them, help them understand, if you wish." 

"My parents both have surviving cousins," Mlle Enjolras said, "but I will not live with them." She sounded very definite about that. 

"Very well," Combeferre said. "Were you at school somewhere? A convent, perhaps?" 

"I was, but I am finished there now."

"So you were simply living in Aiguilhe?" 

"We were in mostly in Marseille," Mlle Enjolras said, "but came back to the family home in Aiguilhe from time to time." She shrugged. "I have nowhere to call home anymore, Monsieur, if I ever did. I left Aiguilhe with no fixed plan of where I would go after pursuing the creatures who butchered my family and neighbors. Where I would live seemed unimportant, and not very pressing, a question for a later day." 

That "if I ever did" had a sad significance, but now was not the correct moment to probe further into it.

"Well," Combeferre said, smiling slightly, "that later day has come. Since you do not wish to live with your family, you have two choices. Well, three, I suppose. But two if you want to pursue the vocation of a vampire slayer with a Watcher who has studied the occult as your guide." 

He paused to think for a moment. Explaining his precise relationship to the French Watchers was going to be tricky. "I will be frank with you, Mademoiselle. I have some training as a Watcher—that is, a guide to the Slayer—but I do not follow the rules of the traditional French Watchers, who are also looking for you. Their plans for you are very different from mine, and they do not know that I am here." 

Mlle Enjolras's face was carefully blank as she asked, "What are their plans for me?" 

Combeferre had thought long and hard about how he would explain this, and had not arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. On the one hand, he did not wish to bias her unduly. The path she took should be her own choice, based on her ideals, not his. On the other hand, he wished to be honest about the flaws of the traditional French Watchers, as he saw them. 

"They place great emphasis on authority," Combeferre finally said. "They believe the Slayer is the...subordinate," he continued, substituting "subordinate" for "tool," which is what he had been about to say, "of the Watchers, that she is under their...paternal guidance, that in all matters they owe her...instruction and protection," Combeferre really felt he was acting as the lawyer for the defense of the French Watchers by crediting them with a genuine desire to protect the Slayer, "and she owes them obedience." Well, _that_ was nothing more nor less than accurate, at least. "They also believe that the Slayer's role is to protect a divinely ordained social order, an order that some traditional Watchers believe includes the divine right of kings. Her battle against vampires and other creatures of evil is fought to preserve this order, and must be conducted with its blessing." 

Mlle Enjolras's lips tightened, but she only said, "And what would _your_ plan for me be?” 

This, Combeferre could speak of without guarding his tongue. He was permitted to be his own partisan, surely, even if fairness forbade him from doing a rhetorical hatchet-job on his philosophical opponents. "I believe that a Watcher should be a Slayer's ally, not her seigneur; that she owes him no obedience, but should avail herself of any knowledge or counsel he has; that he owes her protection in the way a teacher protects a student, but should not under any circumstances 'protect' her from her own reasoned judgment. I believe the Slayer's role is to protect human beings, rather than the authority of church or state, or the social order imposed by such institutions."

"Like anyone, I would rather have a friend than a master," said Mlle Enjolras. "If you are being truthful about your intentions, I would certainly rather have you than the traditional Watchers. But you mentioned a third choice, Monsieur." 

"Well, yes," Combeferre said, "the third choice is deciding that you want nothing to do with either myself or the traditional Watchers. You might slay vampires on your own, without my assistance or any other Watcher's. Or you might decide that you don't want to fulfill the Slayer's role at all. But if you choose to go off on your own, whether you slay vampires or not, you should know that the traditional Watchers will make every effort to force you into their service should they ever find you. So your best course would be to remain hidden." 

"It seems to me that, if I chose you as my Watcher, we would still have to remain hidden," Mlle Enjolras said, her mouth twisting into a faint smile. 

"Yes," said Combeferre. "The French Watchers would not approve of my methods. If they found you with me, they would insist upon taking you away and making one of their own your Watcher." 

"So you are...how shall I put this...a rogue?" 

"An unflattering word to use, but yes." 

Mlle Enjolras turned away from him to look into the distance. The silence made Combeferre tense, but he willed himself not to interrupt it. 

Finally, Mlle Enjolras faced Combeferre and made a decisive gesture with her hand. "I would have you as my Watcher, Monsieur, as I said earlier. You helped me, and I believe you are telling the truth now." 

Combeferre smiled. "I am very happy to hear you say that, Mademoiselle, very happy indeed." 

“Where would we go, then? To slay vampires, and protect humanity?” Mlle Enjolras sounded very much in earnest about this new calling of hers. Combeferre could not help smiling again. 

“To Paris,” he said, “if you have no objection. That is where I live—I am a medical student there.”

“I have no objection to going to Paris,” Mlle Enjolras said. She added, with a trace of curiosity, “I have never been there. But I do have one condition.” 

“And what is that, Mademoiselle?” 

“We must stop in Mouret-sur-Loire on the way,” she said. “I overheard the vampires I just…killed…” 

“Slew, Mademoiselle, not killed,” Combeferre said gently. “Killing is for humans, or for beasts of nature. You should keep those concepts separate in your mind.” 

“And does a vampire slayer never kill humans?” 

“Any human, including a vampire slayer, may have to kill other humans in dire circumstances. But the Slayer’s particular mission is to kill vampires and other soulless creatures—not humans. Now, tell me: why must we stop in Mouret-sur-Loire?” 

“There are vampires there,” Mlle Enjolras said. “And from what I heard, the vampires in that town are not simply a pack of wolves passing through. Somehow, they are in charge. They have the authorities on their side.” 

This did not surprise Combeferre. “Vampires often suborn the authorities,” he said. “In some cases, they _are_ the authorities.”

Mlle Enjolras looked at him in frank astonishment. Combeferre smiled bitterly. “Yes, Mademoiselle. Usually a new vampire will stay on the fringes of human society. Vampires are usually inconspicuous and nomadic, picking off their prey and then moving on. But if a new vampire was someone of high social position as a human, someone with power…well, why would they stay on the fringes? They would have no desire to give up their lofty status to live like vagabonds. No, they can easily adapt to human society, pretending they are still human. They would need to avoid direct sunlight, of course, but that is manageable.”

“Don’t they need to drink blood to survive? The creatures I just killed—slew—I overheard them saying they would wither without blood.” 

“Yes, and an aristocrat or a haut-bourgeois can easily get the blood of some unfortunate wretch—some forgotten gamin in the cities, or some poor peasant in the country, or a convict, perhaps--without notice or comment.” 

Mlle Enjolras’s nostrils flared, and her hands clenched into fists. 

“That was one of my major disagreements with the traditional Watchers,” Combeferre said. “They believed that, in those cases, it was sometimes better to…maintain the social order, rather than disrupt it by slaying the vampires in authority.” 

“Any social order that relies on drinking innocent blood _must_ be disrupted.” Mlle Enjolras looked at Combeferre defiantly, as if expecting him to scold her, though he could not think why—he had just told her he shared that view. When he said nothing, she went on, “So we must stop at Mouret-sur-Loire.” 

“Very well,” Combeferre said. He felt himself grinning broadly, and feared he looked rather foolish, but he could not help it. It was an unexpected blessing, that the Slayer would already share his most basic sentiments so strongly and so decidedly. “But now, we still have more practical matters to discuss.” 

He hesitated. What he was about to say next would inevitably create some awkwardness. "Please forgive me, but the situation we are in...it requires casting some formalities to the side. I will have to make some suggestions that do not fall within the bounds of propriety." 

Mlle Enjolras raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. 

"But I swear to you," Combeferre continued, "upon my honor, that I will take no liberties of any kind with you. And if you do not like any suggestion I make, for whatever reason, you must tell me, and we will abandon it immediately." 

Mlle Enjolras nodded. "I believe you are trustworthy," she said very gravely. 

Combeferre felt his face grow hot; he felt sure he was turning an unflattering shade of red. Something about Mlle Enjolras's seriousness made her belief in him supremely touching. It made Combeferre all the more determined to be worthy of such faith. 

“Do you wish to remain disguised as a man?” Combeferre asked. “Or would you prefer to live openly as a woman?” 

“I would have more freedom to fulfill my duties as a vampire slayer if I pretended to be a man,” said Mlle Enjolras, after several moments’ silent consideration. “I will continue to do so.” 

And there was that look of challenge on her face again, as if she expected a lecture or some other chastisement. It was a slightly pugilistic look, which faded into a sort of puzzled satisfaction when Combeferre simply said, “Very well. But…”

“But?” 

“It may be difficult for you to claim any property and money your family may have left you, if you disguise yourself as a man,” Combeferre said. “You said your parents had surviving cousins. If they currently believe that you were slaughtered at Aiguilhe, then one of those cousins is likely the heir to your family’s property. To reclaim it, you would have to declare yourself among the living, under your true identity. I suppose if you had a brother close to your age, you could pretend to be him, but you’d have to avoid meeting anyone who could recognize you, and…” 

"I have no brother,” Mlle Enjolras said, “and everyone does think I was killed at Aiguilhe. My body was not found, of course, but neither were the bodies of many of the dead. The vampires ripped many to shreds, carried some parts of their corpses with them, and burned many as well.” 

She turned away from Combeferre, looking out at the horizon. “I am only seventeen, still in my minority.” Only three years younger than Combeferre, then. He suddenly felt keenly aware of his own lack of experience, and the pitfalls it would bring—but what was the alternative? He would _not_ turn her over to some ultraroyalist graybeard Watcher who would try to make her his pawn. This girl was not meant to be anyone’s pawn. Nobody was. 

“If I were discovered alive, I would be under the guardianship of my father’s cousin." Mlle Enjolras’s tone made it absolutely clear that she did not like this prospect. "So I don't intend to claim my family property. Let my father's cousins take it. I can live off the silver and jewelry I took from my home in that bag over there,” she pointed at a large sack against the château’s wall, “though I will need to be frugal.” 

“Yes,” Combeferre said. “We will both need to be frugal—I only have my allowance from my family—which brings me to a more delicate point.” 

This was very, very, _very_ awkward to say. Combeferre was not much given to expletives, but he found himself thinking all kinds of profanities at the moment. 

He told himself not to be a coward, and plowed on. “Lodgings while traveling, and in Paris, will obviously cost money. If you are to be disguised as a man, it may be simpler to share accommodations, as improper as that might be, as that would negate many practical difficulties, but only if you are not distressed by this..." There, he had managed to get the words out, though his cheeks were burning. "I must repeat, Mademoiselle, that I will take no liberties with your honor if you choose this alternative.” 

She was blushing and looking elsewhere, and could he blame her? But the subject had to be raised, and could not be deferred. At some point they would have to leave these ruins and, if they left together, they would need a plan of how and where they would travel.

“Never mind,” Combeferre said, though he was truly concerned about funds. If he asked for more money from home, there was just a chance Uncle Henri might get wind of it. Combeferre was under no suspicion from the French Watchers at the moment, and he wanted very much to keep it that way. He could not become reckless through complacency. But—Mlle Enjolras’s honor and dignity came first. “I will never force you into a situation painful to your sensibilities.” 

Mlle Enjolras simply stared off into the distance. Combeferre took a moment to marvel at the strangeness of their situation. "We needn't decide this right away," he said, "we've only just met, and you've had so many shocks. To discuss such sensitive matters immediately after..." 

Her grim bark of laughter cut him off abruptly. "Monsieur, I saw my family and neighbors torn to pieces. I still see their mangled corpses every time I close my eyes. I have donned men's clothes and killed the creatures responsible for these outrages, creatures I didn't even know existed before. Everything I've ever known has been washed away in a torrent of blood. I feel as though...as though I have traversed a revolutionary apocalypse of some sort." She set her jaw, looking very pale. 

_Revolutionary apocalypse._ It was an unusual turn of phrase, especially for a sheltered girl of seventeen. Combeferre thought it accurate, though. Everything that was once rooted and seemingly eternal was now overthrown--overthrown in death and agony, yes, but even so there was the potential of creating something better than what would have been. What sort of woman would Mlle Enjolras have made, if she had not been called as a Slayer? If she had been forced into the ordinary life of a bourgeoise? And what sort of a Slayer would she be now? 

"The impropriety of our conversation is nothing in comparison to everything else," Mlle Enjolras continued. "And it's best if we settle these matters quickly." Her fists clenched and unclenched; she shifted from foot to foot, looking desperate to act in some way. “Sharing lodgings is the most prudent course of action, and so we should do that.” 

“Very well, then,” Combeferre said, feeling a new respect for the girl’s unflinching willingness to grapple with harsh realities. “So you are set on remaining disguised as a man, leaving your family money unclaimed, and allowing your remaining relations to think you dead?” 

“Yes,” Mlle Enjolras said, flinging her head back. Her hair fanned out behind her. And that was another issue. 

"Did you try to cut your hair?" Combeferre asked, suddenly, drawing the subject from the grand to the trivial. 

Mlle Enjolras flushed, reaching behind her to remove the ribbon tying her hair back. She pulled the strands round in front of her. Her locks were shorter than most women's hair, but longer than was fashionable for men. The ends were jagged, uneven. She'd obviously cut her hair herself, probably without the aid of a mirror. "Yes. Not well, as you can see. I should probably fix it, though I don't really know how." 

Going to a barber might raise questions. Maybe Combeferre could concoct a story for the barber about how his silly younger brother had tried to grow out his hair as a prank, but it would be better for Combeferre to simply cut the hair himself. What was another awkward moment, in a day that had already proved to be chock-full of them? And it wasn't even noon yet. 

"If you will allow me?" Combeferre asked, hesitantly. When Mlle Enjolras nodded, he reached into his bag for a pair of scissors. 

She turned around, shaking her hair out. Combeferre's fingers threaded gently through the silky mane, straightening it out, before he cut in as close to a straight line as he could manage, so that the hair below her neck fell away to deck the ground below them with thick shining curls. When Combeferre was done, she looked like a boy, albeit an oddly ethereal one. 

"And now, Mademoiselle," said Combeferre, "if you are ready, let us be off to Mouret-sur-Loire.”


	3. Chapter 3

Their journey to Mouret-sur-Loire was uneventful, smoothed by Combeferre’s facility with a quick spell that would give them both any required papers, and another that concealed the small hoard of riches they carried from any casual observer. Cheap glamors, easily penetrated by anyone with any facility with magic—or indeed anyone who looked closely—but enough to fool most. 

His initial fear that someone would discover Mlle Enjolras’s true sex, a worry that had chewed at him like a moth at an old blanket, soon faded. Instead, Combeferre began to feel elated, almost to the point of recklessness. 

It was so _easy,_ intoxicatingly so. It took so little for them to get away with it. A haircut, a change of garb, and the most fundamental distinction between the two halves of humanity vanished like mist before the sun. 

That was how it felt during the day. By daylight, Combeferre found it shockingly ordinary to address and even think of his companion as ‘Enjolras,’ to travel with him— _her_ — at odd hours and eat with her in rough inns, to treat her with no more protective care than Combeferre would give a headstrong younger brother. 

At night, though, it was different. At night, when they would retire to rooms that they would often share, Combeferre became painfully conscious of everything. The inherent impropriety of their situation, the weight of his responsibility, the vulnerability of her sex—all of this could be forgotten in sunlight, but took its toll at night. 

For the most part they traveled in companionable silence, underneath which Combeferre was solicitous and Mlle Enjolras was…grieving, no doubt, but otherwise inscrutable. She was stoic as a Spartan wife of old, and Combeferre never heard her cry at night, but she always rose in the morning with eyes lightly brushed with red. Combeferre wished he could comfort her. But he had no idea how. Her steadfast reserve made it seem like any further expressions of sympathy would be irrelevant at best, insolent at worst. 

Still, it took very little time for Combeferre to grow accustomed to her company and, as her character unfolded before him with the days, to enjoy it. She was more than clever. Her intellect had a relentless quality that he never would have expected in even the best-educated woman. She would pursue any line of thinking to its farthest conclusion like a huntress stalking her prey. Combeferre would suggest a plan or idea, only to have Mlle Enjolras mull it, weigh it, and then eagerly point out that its implications went far beyond what Combeferre had first believed. 

“The vampires are most likely staying at the château,” Combeferre said one night, when they were only a day’s journey away from their destination. “Strong, well-fortified, easy to avoid the sunlight so long as they stay inside.” 

Mlle Enjolras nodded. “So the best plan would be to lure them out? Fighting them inside would give them the advantage of numbers and no sunlight. Aside from which, they would know the inside of the castle far better than I, if they have lived there.” She paused, looking severely thoughtful. “Perhaps I could start a fire of some kind? No, the château is of stone, that would be no good, and smoking them out would be difficult.” Another pause, before she triumphantly offered, “We could set a trap, with myself as bait!”

“No,” said Combeferre, horrified. 

Mlle Enjolras frowned. “I think we should. It would work splendidly. I would stand outside, looking alone and lost, and we would do this at dusk, so that the vampires would feel emboldened to come out, but there would still be enough light for us to see by, and then…we could spring some sort of trap on them, though I confess I have not yet thought of what the trap would be…”

“I will not have you dangle yourself in front of the vampires as bait,” Combeferre said, beginning to feel cross. 

Mlle Enjolras raised her eyebrows. “I am a vampire slayer. How can I slay them if I do not fight them?” 

“Fighting them is one thing,” Combeferre said. “Tempting them into attacking you, so that they initiate the encounter and have the advantage of you, is another thing entirely.” 

“But if it’s our trap, they _won’t_ have the advantage, because _we_ will have initiated and planned the encounter,” she parried, with annoying calmness. 

“I forbid it,” Combeferre said, scowling, and then winced—even to his own ears, he had sounded like his Uncle Henri.

Her frown returned, sterner than before. “You cannot forbid me. That was not our agreement.” 

“I know.” Combeferre sighed. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. I know. I simply do not wish to endanger you unnecessarily.” 

“I will always be in danger,” she said inflexibly. “Fighting vampires will never be a safe occupation.”

“That does not mean we should court danger if we don’t need to. Let’s try to think of another way, shall we? If we can’t, then we can revisit the idea of using you as bait.” Combeferre silently vowed that he _would_ think of another way, even if that other way was fleeing like a coward and abandoning Mouret-sur-Loire to its fate. Somehow the thought of Mlle Enjolras standing outside a château, waiting for vampires to attack her, sickened him. 

“Very well,” said Mlle Enjolras. 

When they arrived at Mouret-sur-Loire, it was mid-morning and the sky was glaringly bright. Combeferre nervously looked about as they dismounted from the diligence, which sped away as quickly as possible. The frigid quiet was ominous, especially since there was no human soul to be seen in the town. They swiftly found an inn, but its doors were closed, and knocking produced no answer. 

Combeferre stared at the entrance, cursing to himself, while Enjolras began to circle the inn, trying to find a spot to peer through.

Suddenly Combeferre heard her gasp. He whirled to face her, only to see that someone had seized her arm and was pulling her into a shadowy nook.

“Let me go,” Enjolras hissed. Combeferre spared a moment to be thankful that she had developed enough self-control not to simply fling the other person from her with Slayer strength. 

“Warm to the touch,” said an old man’s voice. “You’re not one of them accursed creatures. Just a boy. Come in, then—and bring your friend with you, but be quick. They could attack at any time.” 

“It’s daylight,” Enjolras said, though she obeyed, tugging Combeferre by the wrist after her. “How could they attack?”

Inside the inn, clustered round a roaring fire, were at least thirty people, mostly women, children and older men. 

A thickset woman of about forty-five or fifty years, standing farthest from the fire, gave Enjolras a measuring look. “So you know about the creatures, then? You know what they are?” 

Enjolras nodded. The woman stared at her, but when Enjolras remained silent, the woman went on: “It’s true enough they don’t come out into the sun, but they have attacked us even when it’s daylight. They use special shades and umbrellas. They don’t much like doing it—prefer to wait till it’s dark. But sometimes they have to, because now nobody in these parts goes out at night.”

“Not if they have a choice,” said the old man. 

The woman turned back to Enjolras. “You didn’t explain how you know about vampires, young man.” 

Combeferre stepped forward. “We hunt vampires.” Best not to say anything about Slayers or Watchers, not yet, not unless they were pressed. 

“Oh? And that’s why you came here? On a hunt?” The woman looked Combeferre up and down.

“Yes.” Combeferre looked back at her steadily, willing himself not to fidget.

Finally the woman chuckled. “Well, you came to the right place,” she said. “I am Madame Bahorel. My sons and one of my daughters and a few other young people are attacking the castle right now. Their first object is to free the people the vampires are holding prisoner there, but I’m sure they wouldn’t complain if they got the chance to kill a monster or two.”

“Prisoner?” Enjolras started. “So they are keeping them to drink from?”

Mme Bahorel winced. “I fear that is so, poor things. The vampires came here sudden-like, you see—we had no warning—”

“ _We_ had no warning,” said a younger woman. “M. le maire, _he_ had warning. So did M. de Roissy, and old Mathieu, who saw a profit in selling their neighbors to the beasts.” 

“Not to mention M. le curé, who is convinced that all this is God’s punishment for our wicked disobedience,” Mme Bahorel added, sounding equally bitter, “but the rest of us were taken by surprise. They came in, seized their victims, and took over the castle. We tried to attack them once before, but lost three men, and had no success.” 

Combeferre shuddered. “Have they already reached the castle, Madame?”

“Why, boy? Do you think to join them?” 

“Yes,” said Enjolras. 

Mme Bahorel snorted. “Does your mother know you’re here, my lad? I’m not sending a child like you off to fight those things.” 

“You need not send me,” Enjolras said equably. “I will simply go.”

“He is a vampire slayer, Madame,” Combeferre said, trusting that she would not know that Slayers were always women. “He has a divine gift—he’s been blessed with the strength and skill to hunt vampires. He’s much stronger than he looks.”

Mme Bahorel looked skeptical, but Enjolras had already moved towards the door, and Combeferre followed her. 

The road to the castle was empty of sound or life, but when they reached, Combeferre heard the noise of a battle inside.

At least, he thought it was the noise of a battle. He had never been in or near a battle himself; he had merely read of them. But there were cries of anger and cries of pain. There was metal clanking against metal, metal thrusting into flesh and pulling out again, with a wet and sucking sound. Combeferre looked at Enjolras, worried. 

Enjolras's chin went up. "Let us go," she said, her voice perfectly even. 

_She has already seen horrors you cannot imagine, and faced them bravely_ , Combeferre reminded himself. He felt cold and queasy, and drew a harsh breath. He could not play the coward now, not while Enjolras relied on him to help, not when she was the picture of courage. He had shepherded her along this path; he could not abandon her in his terror.

They skirted the castle, looking for an entrance. Enjolras pried open a small stone door and went into the darkness inside without so much as a pause. Combeferre followed, chewing on his lower lip. 

They made their way along a passage, guided by the touch of the wall and the sounds of the struggle, for what seemed an endless period. Combeferre felt himself growing calmer: surely, they would never reach the battle. Surely, they would have to give up and turn back, and no blame could attach to them then, for they would have _tried_ to find it…

It was an unworthy thought. It should have made Combeferre shrivel inward with shame, but there was no time to think much of it, for they had stumbled upon a hall flickering with candlelight, and inside the fight was raging, and Enjolras was already charging in. 

“Wait,” Combeferre said, but the din swallowed the word. Enjolras drove a stake through the heart of one vampire that had been drinking from a villager. She pivoted to fight another. 

Combeferre ran up to her; by the time he reached, Enjolras had dispatched the second vampire and a third. 

A tall and well-muscled vampire came upon them. Combeferre determinedly stepped between Enjolras and the vampire, who batted him aside. He slapped against a wall, crying out, the stone’s impact cruel and unforgiving to his flesh and bones. 

Enjolras spared him a look out of the corner of her eye, turning her face slightly away from her attacker, who took the opportunity to swing at her head.

“Look out!” Combeferre said, frantic. Enjolras turned back just in time to block the blow, her arm stopping his, obviously matching him in strength.

The tall vampire’s eyes widened. “Slayer,” he said. “What are you doing? We had a bargain!” 

_A bargain_? Combeferre felt a sudden worry: the vampire looked truly surprised.

There was no time to puzzle it out; Enjolras was still fighting the vampire, and another was sneaking upon her. Combeferre ran at it, drawing his short sword. He swung at its neck with all his might, taking its head off, and coughed as the dust flew in his face. 

A piercing pain, right where his shoulder met his neck, made him shout; he pulled away from the sensation, only to see a vampire’s arm snake around his waist, and feel it trap him against its chest. 

He struggled, but the fangs sank further into his flesh. His thrashing grew wilder, more abandoned.

And then the vampire was gone. Combeferre fell backwards into a cloud of ash. He would have hit the floor, but Enjolras braced him with one hand, the other still holding her stake high. 

She bent her head to peer at the wound at his neck, dabbing at it ineffectually with a handkerchief.

“I’m not badly hurt,” Combeferre assured her. The wound was painful, but the bleeding seemed like it could be contained, especially if he used a healing spell. He wasn’t particularly skilled at those just yet, but he was competent enough.

Enjolras looked at him, her eyes large in the pale oval of her face. “Go hide there, behind those barrels,” she said. “I’ll keep the others away from you.”

“I will not leave you to the fighting alone,” Combeferre said, offended.

“Go!” Enjolras cried, pushing him. He stumbled backwards, behind the barrels, as Enjolras had intended. Pulling himself up, he surveyed the room. It was large, perhaps originally built as a hall, but now it was cobwebby and looked more like a cellar, with dusty barrels and old furniture stacked against the walls, lit by candles held in sconces. Throughout, scattered knots of two or three villagers fought, fierce and desperate, against the vampires—Combeferre counted four of those remaining. So there had been ten vampires to begin with, set upon by perhaps twelve humans. It was not a wholly hopeless match, even before Combeferre and Enjolras joined in. Combeferre could see the glimmer of Enjolras’s hair in the dim light as she danced between the knots of fighters, stabbing with her wooden stake. He looked about to see if help was needed in any particular place and, as his eye fell on the barrels again, he had an idea. Perhaps there was flour in some of the barrels…

He placed his hand over his wound and muttered a few Hebrew words; the flow of blood stopped, and the pain dulled. Examining the barrels, Combeferre made an exultant noise: it was indeed flour. Combeferre began to feel a sudden excitement, which he knew was wholly improper, even immoral. He threw a guilty look in Enjolras’s direction, satisfying himself that she was alive and unhurt, whirling upon the last vampire standing. If she staked him, there would be no need to try Combeferre’s plan with the flour—

The door that Enjolras and Combeferre had entered through swung open with a creak, and ten—no, fifteen, or perhaps more—vampires, fangs drawn, rushed in. Combeferre could only gape.

“Run!” Enjolras’s voice, high and clear and sharp, rose above the clamor of footsteps. She was standing on a table, gesturing towards an opening at the opposite end of the hall. The villagers looked at her and then at the vampires before obeying her call to retreat. “Combeferre! Move!” 

He felt his legs revive; he, too, made for the door, attempting to seize Enjolras’s arm and pull her back with him. She shook him off, throwing herself between the vampires and the fleeing humans, staking two in rapid succession before joining the rest through the opening.

A heavy door separated the opening from the hall where they had been fighting. Even with Slayer strength, Enjolras just managed to slam it shut before the vampires could get through. She looked at Combeferre, chalk-faced, with a smear of blood marring one cheek and the side of her neck.

“You—you are hurt?” Combeferre’s voice shook, but he could not bring himself to despise himself for it.

“No.” Enjolras’s own voice was hoarse and low, quite unlike her piercing cries during the battle. They were in a smaller room, with more barrels and furniture shoved against the walls inside.

"How many creatures were there, did you see?"

The question came from a broad-shouldered man a few years older than Combeferre, who wore a waistcoat of a deep rose color. It was not so garish as to be foolish to wear into combat, but it was certainly very different from the dull browns and grays of the other townsfolk. 

"Thirty, I would say," said Enjolras, pushing a tuft of hair out of her eyes.

"Hmm," said the man, looking at Enjolras with a shrewd expression that Combeferre instinctively mistrusted. The man opened his mouth to say something, but Enjolras interrupted him. 

"The prisoners," she said. "We haven't retrieved them yet--do you know where they are?"

"In the dungeons, and I will ask later why you are here and how you know what our plan is--"

"A lady by the name of Mme Bahorel told us," Combeferre said.

"My mother," said the man—or Bahorel, as his name must be. 

Enjolras cut in. "Is there a way into the dungeons without meeting the vampires again?"

There was silence for a moment before one of the two women present—well, three, but two women besides Enjolras—spoke. "The vampires have gone into the dungeons already. I saw them go through the door in that hall we were just in. There's another way through there," she said, pointing through a hole in the stone wall at the back of the room, "but if we go that way we will meet the vampires in the dungeon, and—"

Combeferre shook his head. "There are too many in there for us." Enjolras turned to him, her head thrown back and her back straightened, ready to dispute. "Too many," Combeferre repeated, meeting her gaze. "Thirty, Enjolras, and they know we're here, so there is no element of surprise."

Her defiance held for a few frightening seconds before fading. She nodded reluctantly, to Combeferre's relief.

"But we can't leave the prisoners there," said the woman who had spoken before.

"No," Enjolras agreed, looking at Combeferre. "We can think of a plan--"

"I already have one," said Combeferre. "You see these barrels?" 

Five minutes later, they had piled the flour barrels by the door to the hall from which they had just fled. The mouth of each barrel faced the door. Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel and the other townsfolk manned the barrels, ready to tear the lids off at the signal. Combeferre had a nagging feeling of unease, which he wished he could dismiss as cowardice: he had never attempted an explosion like this before. He would have wanted to practice it, and also to limit the reach of the explosion. Yes, the barrels were aimed at the door, away from where their people were, but Combeferre had little faith in his ability to predict the movements of clouds of flour. 

There was no help for it, though. This was their only plan. 

Enjolras cocked her head to the side. Combeferre could hear only his own heavy breathing mixed with the others', but Enjolras was plainly hearing something on the other side of the door. Her chin went up; she leaned forward, and spoke in a harsh whisper that carried: "It's time. I will count to five and open the door."

Everyone murmured their assent. 

"One...two...three...four...five!" 

Enjolras flung the door open, then ripped the lid off her barrel and pushed it into the hall. The townsfolk did the same, then ran back to the far end of the room, under Bahorel's frantic direction. Flour billowed upwards, towards the flaming sconces on the walls of the hall, as Enjolras hurriedly closed the heavy door again. 

They covered their ears and waited, and waited, for unending seconds, until Combeferre felt sure that his plan had been imbecilic and that something very simple and obvious had gone wrong, something he should have considered and planned for—

And then he heard the explosion. Was it his imagination, or did the stone floor tremble beneath him? 

When the sound dimmed, Combeferre looked around the room. Enjolras had already run to the opening leading to the dungeon. She stood there, alert, poised, listening, before springing down the stairs. Combeferre followed her, hearing Bahorel and the other townsfolk close on his heels. 

The cells were rank, the smell so aggressive that Combeferre froze for a moment as he approached. His vision went hazy. When he came back to himself he saw people in the cells—seven of them, all with matted hair and dirty clothes, all with neck wounds. 

He could not see Enjolras, and had a moment of panic. 

"The boy went up the stairs on the other side, to lock the vampires in the hall," said the woman who had told them of the entrance to the dungeons. "My brothers went with him, and so did two of the others—he'll be fine, you needn't fret." 

"I was not _fretting_ ," Combeferre said, with a scowl. He looked around the room, and saw that Bahorel was not there. "Bahorel went?"

"Yes—both Bahorels did—they're my brothers. Guillaume is the one you spoke to before. They'll look after him, not that he seems to need it much." She stepped forward to examine the bars, grasping one. 

"Mademoiselle--"

"Madame," she said, pulling at the bar, which, to Combeferre's surprise, came off in her hand. Mme Whatever-Her-Married-Name-Was made a startled sound and looked at the prisoners, her eyebrows raised. 

One of the prisoners, a woman with dark smudges under her eyes, held up a file in her hand as an answer. "We were trying to cut through all the bars," she said. Combeferre heard footsteps clatter down the far stairs. Enjolras appeared, followed by four people from the town, including the Bahorel Combeferre had spoken to earlier. 

"It's done," Enjolras said, her voice low. "When they heard the explosion, they ran into the hall to see what happened--we just locked the door behind them, and..." 

And they died a fiery death at her hands, as the vampires in the Château de Beaufort had done. Without thinking, Combeferre slipped an arm around her shoulders. He felt her shudder and lean against him. "Let's leave this place," he said. 

Enjolras and Guillaume Bahorel between them filed through the remaining cell bars. The prisoners climbed out, clumsy and stiff after their imprisonment. They trudged up the stairs, skirted the hall where they had fought the vampires, and found their way out into the yellow day. 

Combeferre felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look up at Guillaume Bahorel's impassive face. "The boy," said Bahorel, gesturing at Enjolras, who did not miss it, even in her distress, but came over to them. "He has special powers of some kind?"

Combeferre hesitated. "I'm a vampire slayer," Enjolras answered, after glancing at him. "I have...supernatural strength, which lets me fight--"

"Ah," said Bahorel softly. "Yes. I've heard of vampire slayers." He chuckled at their look of surprise. "An old legend, passed down in the family. A curious thing, though—I'd heard that vampire slayers were always girls." He smiled at Enjolras, who presented a blank stare as a shield. Combeferre hoped he himself was equally unrevealing. "But then, it was only an old story—I shouldn't be surprised it was wrong." He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder, then marched ahead to join the other townsfolk. 

"He knows," Enjolras whispered.

"He won't say anything," Combeferre said, mostly believing it. They were alone, now, or near enough, the townsfolk too far away to hear anything they said. "Come, Enjolras—there will be time enough to worry about this later, should it prove necessary." She gave him a brief nod, and the two turned back to the town. 

***

Henri Combeferre rubbed his eyes. The glow from the fire had dulled and the glow from the sun had long vanished, so the only light remaining was the weak flicker of the candles, barely illuminating the pages of his tome. Was it already past sunset? Bertrande had brought in a plate some time ago—how long?—but Henri had not touched it. He had to keep reading, he had to keep searching, for surely somewhere in this library was a hint of how to find the Slayer. The accursed girl had proven more elusive than he had ever thought she would be, so much so that Henri would have believed her dead, if it weren't for the seeress swearing that she still breathed. 

Henri sighed and glared at the volume in his hands. The letters blurred before him; his knowledge of Hebrew seemed like to desert him. A rustling sound outside distracted him for a moment, but Henri refused to give into the temptation to let his thoughts go elsewhere. He must concentrate, he must discipline his errant mind, he must—

The door splintered. By the time Henri looked up, the vampires had already reached the side of his chair. 

He started upwards. A vampire caught him easily in one hand. "Did you think you'd get away with it? You fool."

Henri, too stunned for fear, wondered what in God's name the creature was talking about. Then the fangs stabbed into his neck. The blood drained from his head, and Henri Combeferre wondered no more.

***

"The vampires were retaliating." André Simon was grave and dignified, as befitting a senior Watcher, even while narrating events that must have caused him grief. 

Javert approved. "Was M. Combeferre the only victim?"

"His wife," Simon said. "And their servants, of course. But yes, Henri Combeferre was the only one of our number who was murdered. M. de la Roche was hurt in a separate attack on his home, but managed to escape, and bear witness. Which brings me to the task I have for you, Javert." Simon smiled. "I believe you are the best qualified to fulfill it. Everyone speaks of your doggedness, your persistence in the chase. It is a trait that will serve us well now." 

"You wish me to find the vampires responsible for the attack?"

"No," said Simon. "We have other Watchers pursuing the creatures. I have a different assignment for you. As I said, the vampires were retaliating, and M. de la Roche has given us a clue as to what their grievance was. You see, we had made a bargain, with a group of vampires who had taken possession of Mouret-sur-Loire."

Simon looked at Javert, who nodded, comprehending. He knew of such bargains, of course. They were necessary, to conserve the Watchers' resources and maintain the proper social order. The vampires would be left alone in a particular town or village, provided that they did not wreak havoc or kill more than an agreed-up number of people. Javert had never been involved in the making of such bargains, but he had worked to uphold them before. Once made, such an agreement was sacrosanct.

"You know we've had trouble finding the new Slayer?"

"Yes," said Javert, surprised at the abrupt change of subject.

"We thought she was injured, or kidnapped, or possibly in hiding. But just recently, there was an attack on the vampire stronghold at Mouret-sur-Loire."

Javert blinked. "You believe the girl was behind it? That she broke the peace?"

"The vampires who attacked M. de la Roche said a few things--they seem to believe their brethren at Mouret-sur-Loire had been set upon by a Watcher-Slayer team, who were allied with Mouret-sur-Loire's townspeople." 

Javert considered this. "Do you know who the rogue Watcher is, then? The one with the Slayer?"

"No," said Simon. "That is for you to find out." He smiled again. "I trust this isn't beyond your capabilities?"

"I would not boast," said Javert, "but with all due humility, M. Simon, I do not believe it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mouret-sur-Loire is a made-up place in the South of France.


	4. Chapter 4

They had been settled in Paris for a week before Combeferre received the news. 

“My dear Sébastien,” it began as usual, in his father’s precise hand. 

Five minutes later, Combeferre was jolted back into awareness of his surroundings when Enjolras came in. “What happened?” She sat down opposite him, on the wooden chair across from his bed. 

For a moment, Combeferre just looked at her. _You happened,_ he thought. _You and I both happened, and Uncle Henri and Aunt Lise and their servants paid the price._ But he said nothing. 

Enjolras frowned. “Well?” 

“My Uncle Henri and my Aunt Lise, and their house-maid and kitchen-maid,” Combeferre finally said, his voice cracking. Enjolras just waited, as still as a cat about to pounce. “He’s been murdered. By vampires.” It was unfair, Combeferre knew, to blame or resent her for this. It was he who had sought her out, he who had shepherded her to Mouret-sur-Loire, he who had planned their attack. The only one to blame here was Combeferre himself. 

“How terrible,” Enjolras said, mechanically, uncertainly. Her look was expectant, as if she knew there was more to come. 

“It was retaliation,” said Combeferre. “For Mouret-sur-Loire. Apparently there had been a—well. An arrangement.” He did not wish to explain the arrangement to Enjolras’s implacable stare. He was revolted by it himself; he could not imagine her reacting to it with anything but the most withering scorn. 

“The Watchers made a deal with a new pack of vampires that included those of Mouret-sur-Loire,” he eventually forced himself to say. “The vampires were not to attack any humans outside certain areas, or above a certain rank—or any Watchers themselves, of course. In exchange, the vampires could do as they pleased with the peasants of Mouret-sur-Loire, and a few other towns.” 

Enjolras’s lips thinned and her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent. 

“When we fought off the vampires there—when their friends got wind of it—well, that was breaking the agreement. The vampires saw it as a betrayal by the Watchers. They do not know or care that we are not working with the Watchers. All they know is that a Slayer and her Watcher killed their companions. And so they killed my aunt and uncle, for what we did.” 

Enjolras grew even stiller. She seemed to stop breathing. “Surely you don’t think we did wrong?”

“Aunt Lise wasn’t even a Watcher—she was simply my uncle’s wife, an innocent woman, a bystander,” said Combeferre, without answering. “The maids were even less involved. They paid for our victory.” 

“The peasants of Mouret-sur-Loire were also innocent.” Something in her voice reminded him of a blade, sharp and unyielding. Combeferre turned away from her to the wall, blinking hard. 

“Indeed they were,” said a deep voice from the doorway. Combeferre looked up to see Bahorel standing there, holding a stake loosely in one hand. He recollected that Bahorel and Enjolras had been out patrolling together, but Combeferre had not realized that Bahorel had followed Enjolras back to the building where she and Combeferre lived. “They were also innocent, and they also had families. Including me. Including my mother and father, and my brothers and sisters—which doesn’t make this any less bitter for you, I know.” Bahorel put a heavy hand on Combeferre’s arm. “It won’t ease your pain, but it may ease your conscience, in time.” 

Combeferre bowed his head. He felt he should say something in response but did not trust himself to speak. He wanted to shove Bahorel away with vicious force, or else lean into his touch. 

Bahorel solved that dilemma by putting his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. The gesture was surprisingly gentle, for Bahorel. Combeferre shut his eyes against the tears and let Bahorel’s arm stay where it was. 

When he dared open his eyes again, Enjolras was standing awkwardly before him, biting her lip and looking like a shy young colt. Her weight was more on one leg than the other and her hands twisted together for want of anything better to do. She looked so much at a loss that Combeferre almost smiled. 

“I didn’t know the Watchers made that kind of arrangement,” Enjolras said. “You told me sometimes the Watchers preferred not to slay vampires if it meant disturbing the social order, but I never thought—”

“Neither did I,” Combeferre said. “Although I should have guessed. I knew they would sometimes let the vampires be, so why not make an explicit bargain with them? I should have known.”

“And if you had, would you have done things differently?” Enjolras’s voice shook. “Would you have abandoned Mouret-sur-Loire to its fate?” 

“I—”

“They would have torn the people of Mouret-sur-Loire to shreds,” Enjolras said. “They would have tortured them—done all sorts of vile things to them—or worse, they would have forced innocent people to torture each other.” Her voice had become even once more, but she was pale, and her fists were clenched. Combeferre remembered with a rush of shame and shock that she had seen her own family murdered by vampires.

Bahorel moved to stand between them, solid and slow. “In the future, now that we know about these arrangements,” he said, in a voice both mild and implacable, “we can try to hide the fact that the two of you are a Watcher and a Slayer when we attack vampires. That way, we needn’t leave the vampires to slaughter innocents, but we also needn’t put the Watchers and their associates in unnecessary peril.” 

Combeferre saw Enjolras’s shoulders relax. “Yes, that’s a possible solution,” she said, and looked at Combeferre for approval, which made him wince. He did not trust himself to speak, but simply nodded. Bahorel’s suggestion was as good a plan as any. They did need to find a balance of some sort; they could not simply quit the field, as much as Combeferre might wish to.

Enjolras turned to Bahorel. “I don’t know exactly how we would do this, though. How would I slay vampires while making sure they don’t know I’m the Slayer?”

Bahorel suddenly grinned. “Well. Other people than the Slayer fight vampires, you know.”

Enjolras frowned. “Well, of course, I suppose, if they’re attacked, like the Mouret-sur-Loire folk did when the vampires came upon them. But—”

“Not just when they’re attacked.” Bahorel’s grin grew even broader, until he looked at Combeferre and checked himself, rearranging his features into a more subdued expression. _I must look grief-stricken indeed_ , Combeferre thought.

“Of course self-defense is the most common circumstance,” Bahorel continued, “but there are people who, one might say, go looking for trouble. People who I wanted both of you to meet anyway.” 

“Who?” Combeferre asked, his voice still low and harsh. In spite of everything, he felt curious. Perhaps he would always be curious, even if his hands dripped with blood. 

“Tomorrow evening,” said Bahorel, dodging the question. “I will come for you both at eight o’clock.”

* * *

The café was smoky, dark, and full of rough, jostling, half-drunk men and bold, laughing grisettes twisting away from the men’s groping hands. Combeferre’s eyes kept straying to Enjolras. This was not her element. It was no place for a young lady. He suddenly felt as acutely conscious of her sex as he had when they had first met. 

Combeferre kept her to his side, edging in front of her every time a particularly drunk or vulgar patron came near. 

“I’m all right,” Enjolras whispered to him, but she was visibly as tense as a coiled spring. It was one thing to travel alone or with Combeferre through country roads and to stay in country inns, but another thing entirely to be in close quarters with lewd, rowdy men in a small, crowded, Parisian café. 

Still, Enjolras forced a half-smile. “They think I’m a boy,” she pointed out. “There’s no danger—no reason for them to notice me at all.” 

Bahorel returned to their corner after he finished chatting with a friend. “Come this way,” he said, steering them to a narrow door at the far end of the room. He slipped quietly through it and into an unlit corridor, shutting it behind Combeferre and Enjolras when they followed. There was a sudden hush once the door closed. The din of the room they had just left was still audible, but muffled, and they could now hear a different sound entirely: the sound of conversation. It came from the other end of the corridor. 

“We’re going to talk to some people who know about vampires. They also share your—our—political discontents,” Bahorel said, looking at Combeferre, who nodded in response. It had not taken long to discover that Bahorel had republican sympathies, as Combeferre did himself.

Enjolras gave them both a look of intense scrutiny. “Naturally,” Bahorel continued, turning to include Enjolras in his gaze, “what you hear will need to go no farther than the three of us.” Enjolras murmured agreement, as did Combeferre. “They know about all sorts of _incidents_ in this city, you see.”

“Vampire attacks,” said Enjolras in a low voice. 

Bahorel nodded. “This is a good place to hear rumors of where the drained corpses of gamins or street people might have been found, or where vampires might be hiding during the daytime. And a good place to meet the people who’ve been known to fight them. Follow me,” he said, turning to walk down the corridor. “This will be a more business-like bunch of people than the crowd in the other room. Not too much wine—and no women,” he added casually. 

Combeferre exchanged a glance with Enjolras, but they both kept silent. If Bahorel knew their secret, and Combeferre believed he did, then he was evidently happy to conceal it without saying a word, and there was no reason to drag the subject into the open air.

Bahorel opened another door after a brief series of knocks, and they followed him into a small room containing about ten men, all of whom plainly knew Bahorel. The men gave Combeferre and Enjolras curious looks as they were introduced. “Isn’t he a little young?” said a man in a paint-smeared apron and cap, gesturing at Enjolras. 

“A bit, but he’s a good lad,” said Bahorel easily, “and he’s old enough to know how to hold his tongue and listen, at least. You needn’t worry over him, Feuilly.” 

As they had entered the room, Combeferre had heard snips of talk about the Spanish expedition and cursing Chateaubriand. But now Bahorel deftly maneuvered the conversation to vampires. The men in this room were evidently accustomed to open discussion of the supernatural. They showed no surprise when Bahorel raised the subject, which he did so cleverly that Combeferre felt sure that no one would remember that Bahorel had been the first one to talk of vampires. 

“There was something strange the other day,” said the man Feuilly, taking off his cap and playing idly with the brim. “Or the other night, I suppose. Three vampires set upon a couple of homeless men, out on the far edge of the city—by the Maison Gorbeau, if you know it.”

“Nothing strange about that,” another man said breezily, looking up from his game of dominoes. 

“No, the strange part is that they were thrashed.”

“What,” said Bahorel, half-laughing, “the homeless men put up a fight, did they?” 

“No—that is, yes,” said Feuilly, “but they weren’t winning. I heard about this from a gamin who hangs about where I work sometimes. The men were getting badly hurt and were about to die, and then—well, another man staked the vampires. All by himself.” 

“Did he have a gun?” Enjolras spoke up, her eyes keen with a most unfeminine interest in the practicalities of violence. Combeferre frowned, but said nothing—it was, after all, her duty as the Slayer. 

“No gun,” said Feuilly. “No knife, no sword, no cane, no weapon at all besides a stake. He wasn’t a young man, either. Fit and muscular, but not young—perhaps in his fifties or sixties, my gamin friend told me, though I suppose all men over twenty look old to him. He fought unarmed, he blocked their blows easily without flinching, and he threw one of the vampires clear across the street.” 

“No man has that kind of strength,” Combeferre said. 

“Do you know his name, or anything about him?” This question came from another of the domino-players, perhaps five years older than Combeferre. 

“Just that he is known by those who live near him as being poor but very charitable, and that he wears a yellow redingote,” said Feuilly. 

The conversation swelled up around Combeferre like ocean waves, and with a similar dull, churning noise. He lost track of its threads. Bahorel fell into discussion with a few men at the adjacent table.

“We must find him,” Enjolras said. “The man in the yellow redingote.”

“Find him?”

“If we slay vampires alongside him, and perhaps a few others, and simply blend into their crowd—”

“—then no one will have any reason to suspect who we are,” Combeferre finished. “Of course. Especially since he’s so effective, and yet is obviously not—what you are.”

When they left the café close to an hour later, Bahorel kept them talking of other things until they reached the rooms Enjolras and Combeferre shared.

Once inside, Bahorel turned to them, exultant. “What did I tell you? Feuilly and a couple of the others are going to visit the Maison Gorbeau tomorrow night. The vampires may have had friends in the area. It’s a good place to find people nobody cares about very much. And we might run into Monsieur Yellow Redingote, as well. In either case—we have a chance to hunt vampires, and to blend into the crowd while we do it.” 

Combeferre frowned. “Will this truly work, Bahorel? After all—Enjolras is so much stronger than any of these men. Surely—he—will be caught out even in the middle of a crowd, even if he says nothing about his powers?”

“Just stay away from any flashy displays of strength,” Bahorel said to Enjolras. “Stick to staking and decapitation—in the thick of a fight, no one will notice that it’s much easier for you to pierce muscle with a wooden weapon than it should be. Or if they do notice, they’ll just think you’re unusually strong. No one expects you to be the Slayer. In fact, these men aren’t even sure the Slayer exists, or whether she’s just a legend. And of course, in the legends they’ve heard, the Slayer is always a girl,” he finished blandly. “So they wouldn’t suspect you of it.” 

Enjolras looked back at him stoically, her expression betraying nothing. “Of course.” 

The next evening, Enjolras tucked her pale hair up into a dark cap, while Combeferre put together a bag of weapons that did not appear too strange for an ordinary Parisian with no special connection to the Watchers to possess. Stakes, daggers, an axe used for chopping wood. He reviewed an old book of spells and glamors, making note of how to create fire and sunlight, as well as how to confuse a human being’s perceptions. Fire and light spells would be very obvious to any onlooker and, despite all caution, Enjolras might accidentally do something to reveal her strength. Combeferre had to be able to make sure no one noticed any magic or unusual strength. If they did—

For a moment he saw Uncle Henri’s face before him, cold and accusing. 

The journey by fiacre to the Maison Gorbeau was silent and chilly. Enjolras stared straight in front of her, looking pensive, though her face came alive when Feuilly began a short-lived conversation about Poland. Combeferre felt like his body was tied in knots. He was too anxious to sit without fidgeting, too anxious to speak, too anxious to do or think or feel anything but dread. 

It was still light outside. The plan was for their party to hide around the house before the sun set, so that they would be in place before darkness fell and the vampires, if there were any left, came out. Combeferre and Enjolras settled into a shadowy corner right outside the Maison Gorbeau. Across the street, Bahorel was barely visible, obscured by the dark branches of a tree. Feuilly and one of the other men were on the other side of the house. There were two others in their party, but Combeferre’s nerves had prevented him from paying proper attention to where they would be hiding. In truth, he couldn’t even remember their names. 

The sun sank low and vanished, and Combeferre’s stomach grew heavier. The moon came out, a thin and timid sliver, almost lost in the clouds and the sky. They waited. It felt like hours, but Combeferre wished it would last forever—anything rather than another fight, anything rather than another provocation, another murder laid at his doorsteps. He knew it was cowardly and foolish, but the feeling remained.

Then, when Combeferre thought it must be past midnight (which, he noted sardonically to himself, probably meant it was no later than eight o’clock), they heard a ruckus. Indistinguishable words, shouted with hoarse voices. Loud laughter, sharp and uncontrolled, sounding almost intoxicated—the sound of beasts about to begin the hunt. 

He saw the yellow redingote, looking almost green in the dim light, before he saw the five vampires. The man was directly in front of Combeferre and Enjolras, rushing out of the Maison Gorbeau onto the street, so Combeferre could only see the back of his head. 

Yellow Redingote easily broke one of the vampire’s arms. Beside Combeferre, Enjolras began to lean forward, preparing to join the fray herself. Combeferre put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back. “Wait until the others go first,” he hissed.

Bahorel, Feuilly and the three other men ran into the street, while Enjolras stood with visible impatience. Once the fight was well underway, she sped out behind them, Combeferre following as fast as he could in her wake. 

He did not see how anyone could fail to guess that Enjolras had special powers. Only she and Yellow Redingote could fight any of the vampires alone with any success. Bahorel punched one, and was thrown across the road for his trouble. Feuilly and another man fought together against another vampire, and could just barely hold their own. A bruised Bahorel picked himself up and, with two other men, surrounded one of the vampires. With an advantage of three to one, they managed to stake it.

Yellow Redingote staked another. Enjolras, fighting furiously against two of the remaining three, with Combeferre clumsily stabbing at them in an attempt to help her, ducked a blow and came up under one of the vampire’s arms to stake him. The rest of the men surrounded the other and made quick work of it. The fifth vampire, the one with the broken arm, began to back away.

Enjolras made as if to pursue him, but it proved unnecessary. A fiacre pulled up and a man jumped out of it, as it was still moving. In three quick steps, the man reached the vampire and staked him, before anyone could react.

Combeferre noticed that Yellow Redingote had made his way to the back of their group, far away from the fiacre and the man who had just shown up. “Sir,” Combeferre said, “I—” But he fell silent when Yellow Redingote brought his finger to his lips.

If Yellow Redingote had hoped to escape notice, however, his quest was futile. The newly arrived man strode directly to him, walking past Bahorel and Enjolras without a glance. Three other men descended from the fiacre, which had drawn to a halt, and came swiftly to the first man’s side.

The first man smiled. “Valjean.” He said the word as if it were a profanity. “I came to Paris in search of a rogue Slayer, but it appears I’ve found something still more dangerous, something I’ve sought for far longer.” 

“I’ve told you before, Javert—you are wrong, you don’t know—” Yellow Redingote spoke quickly, as if he expected to be interrupted.

The expectation proved correct. “Silence,” said Javert. The three men by his side raised crossbows, pointed directly at Valjean’s heart.

“What is this?” Bahorel demanded. “Look here, this man just killed two vampires. You obviously know what vampires are. They would have killed innocents. How dare you point weapons at him?”

“This does not concern you,” Javert said curtly.

“It concerns all of us.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, but it still carried, and Javert turned to look at her. Combeferre’s hands clenched into fists. How could Enjolras be so foolish? Oh, it wasn’t foolishness, Combeferre knew that—but still, to speak up at such a moment, right when Javert had told them he was after a rogue Slayer!

Javert turned away from her, uninterested, and Combeferre let out an audible sigh, feeling his shoulders slump. 

“This man is not the hero you think he is,” Javert said, with a touch of a sneer in his voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an object. Squinting in the dim light, Combeferre could see that it was a bottle of water. “I am here on the business of the Watchers of France. It is our sacred duty to lead the fight against vampires, demons and the forces of evil. And this man, messieurs, is the servant of evil.”

With a leisurely movement, he opened the bottle, and threw the water upon Valjean, who tried to duck it, but ended up splashed in the face.

Valjean growled. His face shifted to reveal ridges, wrinkles, and long, sharp fangs.

Combeferre gasped. Murmurs rose up from others in their party. Enjolras made no noise at all, but simply stared at Valjean with narrowed eyes.

Javert turned to Bahorel. “You see, monsieur,” he said, without concealing the triumph in his voice, “your hero is a vampire.”


	5. Chapter 5

A vampire. Combeferre stared at Valjean, who was writhing and hissing like a beast with its leg in a trap. A vampire who fought other vampires, who saved lives…

What was he to do? Stand by and give up this…being who saved others to the Watchers? Or was he to do something to stop it? Fight a human, a _Watcher_ , to protect a vampire?

Bahorel rendered Combeferre’s internal questions irrelevant by punching Javert in the face. 

Whether by design or by luck—Combeferre thought probably design, as Bahorel was an expert puncher—Bahorel had struck Javert at such an angle so Javert fell in the path of the three Watchers with the crossbows. For one brief moment, they couldn’t shoot: Javert was blocking them.

Valjean needed no more encouragement or time. He raced off like a comet. Combeferre barely saw him move, and could not have sworn to which direction he went in.

“Follow him,” Javert gasped out from the ground. The three other Watchers obediently pursued Valjean, sprinting at an impressive pace. But Combeferre knew they would never find him.

“Come,” said Bahorel. Combeferre, startled, looked beside him. Their group was quickly dispersing. Enjolras was a few steps ahead, looking over her shoulder at Combeferre. Bahorel gave Combeferre a light push. “Hurry, before the other Watchers come back.”

They left the shadowy street, half-running, leaving Javert to push himself up from the ground. A few streets away, they caught a battered fiacre. Combeferre kept looking, straining his eyes in the fog of the night, but saw neither Valjean nor the other Watchers.

The ride in the fiacre was quiet. No one wanted to speak out loud. They parted with murmured plans to discuss the strange events of the night when they next met. Combeferre and Enjolras returned to their rooms together, Bahorel accompanying them by unspoken agreement.

They remained silent as until the apartment door shut behind them. “Well,” said Bahorel, flinging himself into Combeferre’s sole armchair. “Have you ever encountered such a thing, young Watcher? A vampire who saves humans?”

Combeferre shrugged off his coat. “No. Nothing in any tome or manuscript or diary I’ve read—it’s unheard of.”

Bahorel nodded, his face solemn. “Of course, until I met Enjolras, I thought a Slayer who was a man was unheard of. So it just goes to show you.”

Enjolras narrowed her eyes, but thankfully did not take the bait. “Can a vampire learn to help others?”

“Of course not,” said Combeferre, “they have no souls.”

“But if a vampire gets a soul?” Bahorel threw out the question almost lazily, leaning back in his chair. 

_That can’t happen,_ Combeferre started to say. But he amended the words before they left his mouth. “I don’t know how that would happen,” he said carefully, instead.

“But you don’t know that it couldn’t?” Enjolras’s look was inquiring and trusting at the same time: she wanted Combeferre to explain himself, but she would accept his stated extent and limits of his knowledge implicitly. He felt again the humbling power of her confidence in him. 

“No, I don’t. I can’t affirm it, nor can I deny it, but—it’s an unlikely explanation.”

“Can you think of a likelier one?” Bahorel was still leaning back in his chair, looking like a sleepy drunk, unless one looked closely at his bright, focused eyes.

“Not especially,” Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fear there are no likely explanations, not for such a ridiculous thing.”

“Ridiculous things may yet be true,” said a hoarse voice from the door.

Combeferre turned around. Bahorel sprang from his chair, and strode to the door, which was only slightly open. He pulled it back, to reveal Valjean.

”Don’t worry,” said Valjean. “I can’t come in. Unless you invite me.”

Bahorel seized a candlestick from a side table, and held it before him like a sword. “No fear of that, but how are you even in the building?”

“The portress let me in the building, but I require a separate invitation for any particular apartment. I cannot enter without your permission, messieurs.”

Enjolras stepped in front of Combeferre. “You saved the lives of some homeless men,” she said, her high, clear voice cutting easily into the conversation. “Why?” 

“Because I do have a soul,” Valjean said, “and my soul has been bought for God. I will harm no man, even if he puts a stake to my heart.”

Combeferre pressed his fingertips into his temples. He suddenly had a headache. “Explain, if you please.” 

Valjean sighed, and from the other side of the doorway, began his tale.

It started when he stole a loaf of bread.

“I was sent to the bagne,” Valjean said, “and when I tried to escape, when it was my turn—we prisoners took it in turns, you see—I was deemed a recidivist.” He shuddered and fell silent. Combeferre wanted to ask what happened then, but in the face of Valjean’s obvious anguish, he held his tongue and waited.

Finally, Valjean raised his head and continued. “The punishment for recidivists at Toulon—at least for strong, healthy recidivists, who passed a certain inspection—was turning. They had a caged vampire ready to bite and turn anyone who was thrown to him. They had two priests ready to bless the manacles on the newly turned vampires, to surround us with crucifixes, to bless the water the guards would spray us with to control us. And it was useful to them, because the vampire prisoners were stronger than any man could be. We lifted and dug and hammered and worked tirelessly, and if our souls were vanished and our minds corroded with hate, well—the authorities weren’t troubled by that. We were chained. They could use us.”

Combeferre felt a wave of nausea so powerful he had to prop himself against the wall with one hand, putting the other to his stomach. He had dissected human cadavers. He’d witnessed surgery on living men, women, and even children, screaming with anguish as the surgeon’s blade cut into their flesh. And he’d known all too well, all too personally, the cruelty and venality of the authorities. Even so, this story was a shock. To deliberately strip a man of his soul...

He did not for one moment doubt its truth. Valjean had little reason to turn up here and lie, when he could save his skin by simply disappearing.

When Combeferre recovered himself, he looked to Enjolras, feeling ashamed. He’d been so overcome by his own sorrow and disgust, he hadn’t considered the impact of such a horrific account on one of Enjolras’s youth and sex. 

Yet Enjolras was impassive, whatever natural revulsion she may have felt. She had witnessed gorier atrocities than this, of course. Combeferre knew it, and yet couldn’t help wishing to protect her from further horrors. Bahorel, at Valjean’s words, had gone as motionless as stone, a granite guardian at the door of the apartment, still gripping the candlestick before him.

Combeferre took a breath. “But you escaped.”

“Yes,” Valjean said. “We vampire prisoners didn’t take it in turns, unlike the humans—but yes, I escaped. It was twilight. One of the priests was careless in blessing one of the manacles, thinking it still too light outside for any of us to get very far. I seized my chance and fled.”

Valjean bowed his head. “I wreaked havoc. I murdered, I—I was brutal, vicious.” Combeferre had never seen a man look so ashamed. “And then I came to a place to Digne. Digne had a bishop, a man called M. Myriel. He always said all were welcome in his home, whoever they might be…”

Combeferre flinched, but Valjean just said, “When I entered, intending to kill him—and his sister, and their housekeeper—I found that the housekeeper had powerful magic. Mme Magloire, her name was. She knew something—some old village learning, passed on from her grandmother...Mme Magloire wanted to kill me. But the bishop asked her to restore my soul instead. I don’t know exactly how she managed it. She called upon her saints, and her whole body shook, her eyes turned black…she was in agony, and so was I. But at the end of it, I had my soul.” His head was still bowed as he said, “I was still feral. With my soul restored, I _could_ do good, but I had no wish to. I stole the bishop’s candlesticks and fled. But the bishop was a saint. He helped me evade the police even after I stole from him. He said henceforth, my soul belonged to God. And so it does.” Valjean raised his head to look from Combeferre to Enjolras to Bahorel, almost beseeching but not quite—more like one who didn’t even dare beseech for his own sake. It was disquieting to see a man—a vampire-- _anyone_ looking like that.

Enjolras stepped forward, standing beside Bahorel. “And Javert? How does he know you?”

Valjean frowned. “He was at Toulon. Not an ordinary guard—he was sent by the Watchers for the specific purpose of helping control the vampire prisoners.”

Combeferre was thoroughly unsurprised by that information. Uncle Henri had probably known all about that. 

“That’s how I came to be a vampire with a soul, messieurs,” Valjean said. “Many strange things have happened to me, but now my life is simple. I have an adopted daughter. We’ve only been in Paris a short while. I give what I can to the poor. I protect those who live on the streets from vampires. I came here because I owed you an explanation, after you—” Valjean nodded at Bahorel. “—saved me from the Watchers. If you wish to stake me now, you may. I won’t harm you, or resist in any way. But if you do, please have a care for my daughter—”

“We will not stake you.” Enjolras folded her arms, looking at Combeferre and Bahorel as if daring them to contradict her.

Bahorel raised his eyebrows in apparent amusement at Enjolras’s commanding tone, but spoke only to agree, “The boy’s right. We’re not fools, or cruel.”

“Of course not,” Combeferre said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts at self control. “You’ve suffered very much, M. Valjean. We have no desire to make you suffer even more.”

“I thank you all,” said Valjean, sounding much too grateful for what was, after all, the fairly trivial kindness of _not killing him._ “You are most generous.”

Bahorel looked deeply offended at Valjean’s gratitude, which almost seemed to verge on self-abasement. But before Bahorel could open his mouth to say anything, Valjean bowed, turned on his heel, and left.

Combeferre, Enjolras, and Bahorel were left wordless. Bahorel finally let his arm drop, wincing and rubbing his shoulder—he’d been holding the candlestick aloft through the whole conversation. Combeferre mechanically poured cups of water for himself and Enjolras. He didn’t bother offering Bahorel water, but instead handed him a bottle of wine. Bahorel took it and drank straight from the mouth. Then he put the bottle down, shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, sank back into the armchair, reached again for the bottle, and took another long gulp.

Combeferre sat as well, in the chair beside Bahorel’s, pressing his forehead into his hand. Only Enjolras remained on her feet, prowling around the room like an anxious cat.

She finally broke the silence. “We have a new ally, at least. A powerful one. He can slay vampires as well as I, perhaps better.” She paused, frowning. “And a new enemy. Javert knows our faces.”

Bahorel smiled. It was both a smile of pure joy and a threatening display of teeth. “And I know his.”

Enjolras shot Bahorel a smile of her own, sliding into the chair on the other side of his. “Yes.” It was just one word, but Enjolras spoke it with an almost painfully obvious affection.

Bahorel reached over to gently cuff her cheek. “I take it the Watchers sent Javert to bring in the rogue Slayer-Watcher pair after they heard what happened in Mouret-sur-Loire. Well—I wish him all the luck in the world, because it won’t be enough to make him succeed.”

“He’ll flee in terror knowing you’re here, if he knows what’s good for him,” said Combeferre, knowing he didn’t sound as sarcastic as he wished to. “Nevertheless, we must be cautious.” _Because we don’t always know the effects of what we are seen to do_ , he didn’t have to add.

“We will,” said Bahorel, putting a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “We’ve discussed this. I haven’t forgotten, and neither has Enjolras, I’m sure. We know what you’ve lost.” Enjolras nodded, looking solemn, but said nothing.

“And now we have a group of people to slay with,” Bahorel added. “That should help keep us inconspicuous, and hide your identities.” He rose. “You youngsters should get some sleep. It’s been a tiring day for us all. Come by the café again tomorrow. I’ll be there, in the back, and we can plan our next outing.”

***

Two days later, Javert stared in silent fury at his desk.

They had lost Jean Valjean, again. After that savage in the red waistcoat punched Javert, Valjean had disappeared. Still, Javert hadn’t worried. After all, Valjean lived in the Gorbeau house, with the girl Cosette, who did not go out with him at night. Javert only needed to have his men come back, when they’d lost Valjean, and watch the house. Or so Javert had thought. Somehow, by whatever devilish magic unknown to righteous men, Valjean had doubled back, taken the girl, and escaped into the night before Javert’s men could even return to begin their watch.

Now there was no sign of Valjean anywhere.

Javert sighed, and turned his attention to a pile of letters concerning the other matter. The rogue Slayer, and the Watcher who’d turned traitor to help her. The Watcher was the truly baffling figure, in Javert’s estimation. A silly girl endowed with Slayer powers might run off for any reason, or no reason at all. But a Watcher—evidently one with great learning and skill—who aided the girl in her insubordinate behavior? That was more difficult to explain.

Javert was not a man who thirsted for explanations, or exerted himself to produce them. He quickly tired of the subject of the Watcher’s motives, and turned to the question of who this Watcher might be. Anyone who had guided the Slayer to defeat the vampires of Mouret-sur-Loire must be seasoned and experienced, perhaps even renowned.

But the letters, as he read them, disturbed the flow of his thoughts. The letters were from a low-level Watcher named Gaillard, sent to interview the peasants of Mouret-sur-Loire. Most wouldn’t speak to him. Peasants were an insular and suspicious folk. Yet the three people who spoke to Gaillard gave remarkably consistent accounts. There was a boy, slim and pale and blond, with ferocious strength. His companion was a young man, lanky and olive-skinned, with unruly black hair and an intellectual sort of air.

A young man, not a veteran Watcher. Likely an unknown, with no time to make a name for himself yet. And—Javert frowned. There had been a slender, pale, golden-haired youth among the ruffians who’d taken Valjean’s part the other night. 

As Javert contemplated this, his frown turned into a smile. Perhaps he’d not lost Valjean after all. If his two prey had joined forces, well and good. He would only need to catch one to find the other.

***

Two nights after their encounter with Valjean, Combeferre was fast asleep. The last couple of days had been exhausting. Classes, and patrolling, and feverish discussions with Feuilly and the other men who’d been out with them when they’d met Valjean. Feuilly was cautiously willing to agree not to harm Valjean, should they meet again. The other men were more reluctant. They agreed in the end after argument, hectoring, and cajoling from Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel. Still, Combeferre hoped Valjean wouldn’t run into them alone.

He slept thickly and dreamlessly. When he woke it was still dark, his body still delightfully slack. He could barely move, but managed to sit up, because he heard Enjolras’s voice. 

Combeferre dragged himself towards the door, still in his nightshirt. Enjolras held a candlestick, and at the door was—

“Valjean,” Combeferre said hoarsely.

“Look—” Enjolras gestured, and beside Valjean, Combeferre saw the child. A small girl, wearing black, her face strangely haggard for her years. She looked about eight years old.

“I’m so deeply sorry to trouble you,” Valjean said. “I don’t ask you to invite me inside, but—we need shelter, Cosette and I. Javert’s men are outside the Gorbeau house.”

Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other. Combeferre did not know whether he nodded first, or Enjolras did, but they turned back to Valjean in mutual assent. “Come in,” said Enjolras.


	6. Chapter 6

Valjean entered, gently pushing the small girl before him. “Good evening,” Combeferre said to the little girl.

“Sit down, monsieur,” said Enjolras, gesturing at a chair. Valjean sat obediently, pulling the child onto his lap. The girl looked from Enjolras to Combeferre with wide unblinking eyes.

“Your name is Cosette, is it?” Combeferre heard his voice go into the sing-song tone his older relatives had used at him in his childhood. He winced, but the child didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. Combeferre realized, at this juncture, that neither he nor Enjolras had introduced themselves to Valjean.

“I’m Sébastien Combeferre,” he said, to both Cosette and Valjean, “and this is Gabriel Enjolras.” Valjean nodded in response, but said nothing. His face was slack and gray. Combeferre didn’t know what to do in the face of such inert despair.

Enjolras suffered from no such dithering. “You need a safe place to say, where Javert will not know to look for you. Can you leave Paris?”

Valjean gave a half-shrug. “I—yes, I can. But I don’t know where I would go. I suppose anywhere, so long as it’s far from here—”

“Where were you before you came to Paris?” Combeferre asked. There was a strange tale here. There had to be, especially to explain how Valjean came to adopt a daughter.

“In a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer,” said Valjean. The name sounded familiar to Combeferre, though he could not remember why. “But I can never return there.” Valjean sounded as flat and certain as the striking of a clock. Combeferre, his curiosity near bubbling over, exchanged a look with Enjolras. But neither would press Valjean on the subject.

Instead, Enjolras turned her gaze back to Valjean with a frown, and asked, “How far does Javert’s power reach? Does he have friends in the police? In the government?”

“I believe if the police know something, Javert will soon know it too,” said Valjean. “As to the government outside the police force—I do not know.”

“The Watchers have friends in the government, even if Javert personally doesn’t,” Combeferre interjected. “And in the Church. Although he likely would not look for you among anyone connected to the Church.”

Enjolras stalked over to a chair, pressing a hand to her forehead. The girl Cosette slid off her father’s lap and looked at him. “I wish I’d brought Catherine.”

Valjean sighed, and pulled her close again. “Her doll,” he explained, looking at Combeferre. Cosette leaned against her father with a gigantic yawn.

“Perhaps you both might sleep,” said Enjolras, “it’s very late. We can discuss what steps to take next in the morning. “

“A good idea,” said Valjean, rising.

Combeferre insisted on Cosette and Valjean taking his bed, while he slept on the sofa. He felt sure Valjean only allowed this because Cosette would not let go of his hand, and Valjean would not compromise her comfort, however little regard he had for his own. Enjolras had offered her bed, too, but Combeferre would not hear of it. Enjolras gave in with a look of amusement that Combeferre ignored: Slayer or not, she was still a young lady.

The sofa was regrettably lumpy and smelled like chemicals; nevertheless, Combeferre was soon fast asleep.

***

Sister Simplice rarely came to Paris, preferring to busy herself with her duties in Montreuil-sur-Mer. She was a country woman at heart, and did not enjoy the big, lamp-lit, grimy city. But as seeress for the French Watchers, her duty called her to Paris once or twice to assist their central command. 

Simplice had been a young girl when the visions first came. The pictures in her mind were of things she had not yet seen, people she had not yet met, places she had not yet been. And yet they were sparkling and clear and _true_ , always true.

Her priest had told her the visions came from the Devil. Simplice had dutifully prayed to God to make them go away, but the visions persisted.

And they remained true! How could they come from the Devil and yet be true?

Her parents had told her to hush and say no more of the visions, and Simplice had obeyed. But when asked of them directly, she would not lie. It made for an uncomfortable childhood. Her parents had been greatly relieved when she announced she was called to the Church; they’d believed taking holy orders would cure her of any devilish powers. 

Instead, once she took her vows, the Watchers found her. Under their direction, Simplice began learning how to direct her second sight, how to see what she _willed_ and not only what came into her mind. Her visions were not perfect or all-encompassing: such power was the sole province of God. She could only see what she knew enough about to deliberately look for, or else what happened to enter her mind, and sometimes she failed at seeing even that. Sometimes she would turn her inner sight onto an eventuality or a person, only to see naught but thick white smoke.

But often—often enough that the French Watchers relied more on her than on any other seer—she would gaze inward and look for something and it would take shape in her mind, every detail sharp and true.

Now, as she sat in the library of the Watchers’ office in Paris, Simplice was confused and, despite herself, slightly curious. She did not know what the Watchers wanted from her. Their letter had been cryptic. Several months ago---nearly a year now—Simplice had seen the Slayer in the South of France, and told the Watchers of her vision when asked. She always told them the truth about her visions, just as she told the truth about all else. Truth was sacred; truth was God; falsehood was the Devil. Simplice would never exaggerate a vision, nor would she change any detail to please an overly persistent or ingratiating Watcher, nor would she say she was sure of a thing if she were not. The Slayer had been in the Midi, near Aiguilhe, and stayed in that region for some time, but Simplice could not see where. She could sense locations—taste and smell them—but without precision. Sometimes if she described a town or a wood or a church, one of the Watchers would be able to identify the place by the details. Simplice herself was not well traveled and would not recognize far-off places herself.

She waited five minutes in the library before Javert entered, flanked by two subordinates. “Sister Simplice, good day. Forgive me for keeping you waiting.” He gave a slight bow.

Simplice inclined her head. “Good day to you all.”

Javert sat across the table from her, the two subordinates taking chairs to his right and left. The one on the right pulled out three small paintings on thick canvases, laying them on the table before him. “Sister,” said Javert, “I must ask you to try and see the vampire Valjean. I know he is in Paris, or was last week. He may still be here. He stayed in the Maison Gorbeau, near the city’s edge.” 

“You’ve asked me to see this vampire before,” said Simplice. “You know I haven’t succeeded.” When Simplice fixed her thoughts on Valjean, calling to mind the wicked defiance of God that was the essence of any vampire, but especially of one so infamous, all she could see was white mist.

“Yes,” said Javert, “but we would like you to try again, if you please. “ He handed her one of the small paintings. “This is Valjean. Perhaps the image will help you.”

The artist had skill. Simplice could see the angry, desperate look in Valjean’s eye, the look of a man—not a man, a being—who was both hunter and hunted, and never at rest. She let her gaze rest upon the painting, focusing and then pulling back, then focusing again. Finally she shut her eyes, and turned her vision inward to whatever it pleased God to show her. _Valjean_ , she prayed. _Show me Valjean._

Seconds went by, became a minute, then two. Simplice saw nothing but the pale, swirling mist.

She opened her eyes, and shook her head.

“Mmmm,” said Javert. “There is something else I would like you to try, if you would. You will remember, of course, the Slayer you saw in the South.”

“Why, yes,” said Simplice, surprised.

“She’s gone rogue,” Javert said, his lip curling, “with the help of a Watcher. I believe her to be in league with Valjean.”

Simplice drew a long breath. A Slayer, in league with a vampire—it was an abomination. Bad enough for the girl to defy the Watchers, but to compound such sinful disobedience with _that_!

“Yes, it’s a vile thing, vile indeed. Nothing is more dangerous than a rogue Slayer, especially if she has an ally with Watcher training. And if she’s joined forces with such a powerful vampire, the consequences will be grave.” Javert paused, and shook his head and, with a deep breath and a hopeful look at Simplice, went on: “But perhaps if you could see her, then—well. We might find her, and we might find Valjean with her. I needn’t tell you what a triumph that would be.”

Simplice nodded. “Well, of course I will. Do you know anything more of this girl than you did when I saw her first?”

Javert slid the two other small paintings to her. One was of a golden-haired youth, the other of a young man with olive skin and rather wild black hair. The faces were indistinct. “The blonde girl—she is a girl, though she may be wearing men’s garb—is the Slayer. The other is her ally, whom I believe to have some Watcher knowledge. Whether he is of one of the Watcher bloodlines, or simply an employee of the Council in some capacity, I do not know. “

“And their names?” They both looked young to Simplice, so very young. Perhaps they might yet be brought back to the path of righteousness.

Javert frowned. “I haven’t yet discovered their names,” he said.

Simplice studied the portraits. She thought of the Slayer, of her calling and her duty, and of her rebellion. She thought of the Watcher, called to guide the Slayer, but leading her away from the Council. She looked hard at the paintings, and then looked inward again.

This time, the mists cleared and a picture formed. Simplice saw the inside of an apartment—a young man on a sofa—another on a bed—and then the outside, a Paris street—and a building, with a number.

Simplice opened her eyes, and nodded.

***

Dawn was breaking when Combeferre heard the metallic scratching sound outside his apartment. It woke him with a start.

It was a determined, _deliberate_ sort of sound, the sound of men working with tools, and it was right at his door. He sprang from the sofa, put his ear to the door, and heard voices, over the sound of a file cutting at the door hinges.

Combeferre took a deep breath, and forced himself to _think._

He first went to his bedroom, where Valjean and Cosette slept, and woke Valjean. “I believe we’ve been found,” Combeferre said. “Block the door to this room from within, you can use that chair and slide it under the handle—we’ll hold them off. It may not be safe to leave through the window, so I wouldn’t advise it.” Forestalling Valjean’s questions and arguments, Combeferre left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He roused Enjolras with a few short words of explanation and left her to dress. Then he went to the outer room, upended the sofa, and shoved it against the door. From a drawer in the desk, he drew out a pistol, a cross, and a stake.

Enjolras came out to join him. Together they wedged the desk next to the sofa, and then they waited, one on either side of the door, to pounce as soon as the attackers came through the room’s narrow opening, now blocked by the furniture.

The door was removed with efficiency. Combeferre could hear the groans and curses of the men moving it out of the way, and then--

Javert’s face appeared in the crack between the sofa and the door. Their attackers were indeed Watchers, then, not vampires. Combeferre had suspected as much, but it still made him shiver.

“ _Javert_ ,” Combeferre mouthed at Enjolras, who was ill-placed to see Javert’s face. She nodded, looking grim, and came around to Combeferre’s side. When Javert pushed further through, she launched herself at him through the widening crack.

The sofa and the desk had moved, but still blocked most of the doorway. One of Javert’s companions shoved at the desk, trying to create enough space to come through. “Stop,” Combeferre said, keeping his voice as even as he could, and aiming his pistol at the Watcher. “I will shoot. Don’t come any further.”

The Watcher, a thickset man in his forties, was undeterred. “You’re the rogue, aren’t you,” he said. “The traitor. You’re to blame for what happened to Henri Combeferre. Don’t think you can threaten me.” He sprang forward, banging his thigh against the desk corner.

Combeferre backed away instinctively, still holding the pistol up. “Don’t! Stop right there!”

The Watcher raised his own crossbow, aiming it squarely at Combeferre. He fired, and Combeferre dodged. The bolt went into the wall. The Watcher fumbled to reload.

Through the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw Valjean enter the outer room, shutting the bedroom door carefully behind him. Valjean was almost noiseless, but with his stature and bulk, no one could fail to perceive him. The Watcher’s teeth bared. “Valjean. I almost couldn’t believe it, but I should have known. Javert never lies.” He raised the crossbow again, and this time Combeferre raised his gun, and fired. The Watcher fell.

Combeferre held his breath, stunned, until the Watcher dragged himself back to his feet, clutching the wound in his abdomen. Not dead, not yet.

Valjean spoke almost into Combeferre’s ear, and Combeferre jumped: he hadn’t noticed Valjean getting so close. “Take care of Cosette,” he said. “She’s hiding in there.” He pointed at the bedroom.

“What—no—monsieur—” But before Combeferre could object, or stop him, Valjean had slid his arm around the Watcher’s waist and pulled him out the door.

“Javert!” Valjean’s voice rang out. “Stop! I surrender!”

“No!” Enjolras cried out. Combeferre dashed towards the door, still partly blocked by furniture, and saw Enjolras standing over a groaning Javert and two other men, while she pointed a crossbow at a fourth. “M. Valjean, we can fight—”

“I will have no bloodshed on my account,” Valjean said. “I surrender. Leave the others be, and you can take me.”

“Don’t stake him yet,” said Javert, getting to his feet. “We have questions for him.” The two men beside Javert rose from the floor, and each grasped one of Valjean’s arms. In a slow procession they left, Javert giving Enjolras a long stare before turning away.

Enjolras made as if to attack again but Combeferre, remembering the girl Cosette, held her back. Someone had to look after the girl; prolonging this fight would risk there being no one, and…Valjean had made his choice.

***

“Young de Courfeyrac,” said Bahorel with an air of paternal patience, “if you try to take on two vampires at once, you will get killed.” There was a murmur of vague agreement from the four others in the café’s back-room: Feuilly, a porter, a longshoreman, and a law student.

De Courfeyrac, determinedly holding himself still under the ministrations of the porter, who was bandaging his arm, frowned. “I don’t like the ‘de,’ if you please,” he said. “Merely Courfeyrac.”

“Very well, Merely Courfeyrac.” Bahorel concealed a smile. “Whatever you wish to call yourself, please behave in such a fashion so we needn’t call you ‘that idiot child who got himself killed fighting two vampires single-handedly.’”

Merely Courfeyrac let out a hiss of pain and exasperation. “What was I to do? They were attacking a girl. Should I have let them kill her?”

Feuilly, perched on the end of a table, said, “No, you did exactly right.” He gave Bahorel a look of mild disapproval. “Bahorel is so unused to seeing such a thing, it astounded him.”

Bahorel thumped Feuilly on the shoulder. “I’m not saying don’t do it, my dear. I’m saying next time, bring a friend.”

“And weapons,” added the porter, finishing the bandaging. “Bring weapons.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Thank you,” he said to the porter. “I could carry a sword-cane, I think.”

“A good idea,” said Bahorel, “and a stake. And you could learn to punch so you hurt the other fellow more than you hurt your own hand.” He grinned at Courfeyrac, who scowled back at him, and opened his mouth to retort.

Whatever rejoinder he had been planning to make was cut off by the sudden entrance of Combeferre. Bahorel rose, noting his dishevelment. “What’s wrong?”

Combeferre hesitated, looking around the back-room uncertainly.

“I think you know everyone here except Courfeyrac,” said Bahorel. “He’s a good lad, albeit lacking in prudence, but that’s no real flaw. I trust him.” Courfeyrac drew himself up a little at that, looking pleased. Bahorel grinned again. Young hotheads were always endearing.

Combeferre hesitated another moment before finally nodding. “Valjean’s been taken prisoner. He and his daughter came to shelter with us in the night, and then near dawn, the Watchers invaded our apartment. Javert led them. I don’t know how they found us. We fought, but Valjean surrendered to avoid bloodshed. Enjolras has taken the girl to—somewhere safe.”

Bahorel was already pulling his coat back on. “Where did they take Valjean?” He was not sure he trusted the vampire, soul or not, but he wouldn’t abandon anyone who acted as Valjean did to the Watchers. Any victory for this Javert against Valjean was a defeat for Bahorel’s side, as far as Bahorel was concerned.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre admitted. “I don’t think they’ve slain him yet. Javert said to keep him alive for questioning.”

Feuilly, his hat back on his head and his waistcoat buttoned up, was already at the door. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “Whether this Valjean is a good man—being—or not, I wouldn’t abandon him to the Watchers’ _questioning._ ”

Courfeyrac jumped up. “Who’s this Valjean? And why are these Watchers torturing him?”

“Too long to explain,” said Bahorel. “Stay here and rest—we’ll tell you everything later.”

“No!” Courfeyrac said, pushing forward. “I can help—”

“Sit down,” Feuilly said wearily. “You’ve done well enough today, you can rest for a bit.”

Combeferre looked at him, appraising. “If you’re hurt, but you wish to be useful, we’ll need someone to watch Cosette. Enjolras is watching her now, but-- _he_ will need to come with us when we go find Valjean.”

Courfeyrac paused. “Child minding?”

Bahorel snorted. “Be glad we don’t assign you a nursemaid yourself, my dear. Do you want to help or not?”

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. “Oh, very well.” With a pronounced sulky air, but moving quickly, he followed them out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Gabrielle led the little girl into Bahorel’s apartment.  Bahorel had given Gabrielle and Combeferre the key long ago, so it was the natural place to retreat after the Watchers left with Valjean.

She shut the door and pulled the curtains close at the windows, and then turned to regard Cosette, who solemnly returned her gaze, without saying a word.

Possibly this would be easier if Cosette knew “M. Enjolras” was actually a girl.  This kind of thing was supposed to be her nature, Gabrielle knew.  And she _liked_ children.  Especially if they were over the age of seven or so, and they could speak, and think, and control themselves a little.

Then Gabrielle could appeal to their reason and their better nature.  Everyone could be moved by such an appeal, children as much so as grown men and women.  Or perhaps more so, not having been taught incorrectly yet.  Gabrielle had sneaked glimpses at the words of Robespierre and Saint-Just even before meeting Combeferre.  Her own time in the convent with the other little girls had left a far deeper imprint:  no one she had met deserved cruelty, or could be truly won over by fear and subjugation.

Cosette seemed fearful indeed, from the look on her face.  Gabrielle resolved to sooth her by appealing to her reason.

“You’re safe,” Gabrielle said, kneeling down to look Cosette in the face.  “Your father came to us with you because he knew we would look after you, see?  You know your father takes good care of you.”

Cosette nodded, still silent. “He trusts us for a reason, “ Gabrielle said.  “He left you with us because he knew we would take care of you.”

Cosette opened her mouth and closed it.  “What is it?”

“Where is my father?”

“He was taken away by some men, but we’re going to try to bring him back.”

“Is that where the other man is?”

“Combeferre’s bringing help,” said Gabrielle, and then corrected herself. “He’s _looking_ for help.” It wouldn’t do to lie to the child and tell her help was surely forthcoming, when that was still in doubt. “He’ll come here when he’s done, and then he and I will go look for your father.”

Cosette frowned, and looked down. “And I’ll wait here by myself, while you go?”

“I—” Gabrielle hesitated, taken aback. She hadn’t thought about who would watch Cosette while they were gone.

“I can,” Cosette said softly. “I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I’ll sit here and not make a sound—”

Gabrielle winced. “No, we—” She broke off. She didn’t know if Combeferre would find anyone and bring them back. Bahorel might be at one of his usual places, or he might not. Combeferre might find another willing to help Valjean, or he might not. If he didn’t, then either Gabrielle would have to go after Valjean alone, or else Combeferre would go with her and Cosette would be alone…but no. Gabrielle looked at Cosette’s scared, resolute, pinched face, and knew the child couldn’t be left alone.

“Someone will stay with you,” said Gabrielle. “If Combeferre comes back alone, then he’ll stay with you.” She paused. “The two of you can…play,” she hazarded, with a silent apology in Combeferre’s direction.

Cosette nodded, looking grave. “I don’t have Catherine. My doll. But I can pretend something else is a doll.”

Gabrielle had enjoyed dolls, as a child. She would make her dolls get into arguments, and then reconcile, and learn they must treat each other justly. She frowned, and looked around Bahorel’s apartment. There was a figurine of some Polish fighter on a bookshelf. Gabrielle took it down and gave it to Cosette.

Cosette examined it in silence, turning it over to look at the details of the clothes. Gabrielle waited, feeling slightly awkward, not knowing what to say.

She was saved by Bahorel bursting through the door, followed by Combeferre, Feuilly, and a young man she didn’t know.

“Thank God,” Gabrielle said.

“Combeferre tells me you don’t know where they took him, but I have some ideas,” said Bahorel.

“You don’t know where my father is?” Cosette’s voice was a whisper.

Bahorel and Combeferre looked uneasily at each other. “No,” Gabrielle said, “but we’re going to look for him.” Cosette bit her lip and nodded.

“Good day to you, mademoiselle,” Bahorel said, kneeling in front of Cosette. “I’m Bahorel. And your name is?”

“I’m Cosette,” she said, still whispering.

“Ah,” said Bahorel. “Well—” He motioned the unknown young man forward. “This is de Courfeyrac—I beg his pardon, Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac had a black eye and looked generally battered, Gabrielle noticed. “Courfeyrac will stay with you while we look for your father.”

Courfeyrac gave an exaggerated bow. “Is that your doll? But how very pretty—have you named him?” Cosette shook her head, smiling a little. “Well, then, name him we must—and then perhaps we can all have coffee and cakes together, you and me and our friend here.”

He turned to Gabrielle, smiling. “You must be Enjolras.”

“I—yes,” said Gabrielle, finding herself smiling back, though unsure of why.

“Courfeyrac knows about vampires and the rest,” Bahorel interposed, “but he’s too injured to come with us on our search. He can stay and rest with mademoiselle here.”

Courfeyrac let out a very dramatic sigh, but nodded. “It will be my pleasure, of course. Mademoiselle Cosette is much more fun than any of you dullards, aren’t you, little one?” Cosette blushed and hid her face.

“Don’t break anything,” Bahorel said, with a near-convincing show of sternness.

As they filed out, Gabrielle lingered for a moment to draw Courfeyrac aside. She still felt forward, initiating conversations with men, though she willfully ignored the feeling. “The child is very scared,” she told him. “Do what you can to comfort her.”

“Of course,” said Courfeyrac. He looked both deeply amused and deeply kind, as if he sincerely felt for the girl and for her father and even for Gabrielle herself, yet still thought them all a good joke, and himself an even better one. There was something very appealing about that.

But Gabrielle couldn’t think what to say, so she just nodded at him, and left with the others.

***

Javert stood, arms crossed, as the holy water dripped onto Valjean’s forehead with a hissing sound.

“The carcasses in Montparnasse,” Javert said. “You can’t make me believe you had nothing to do with them.”

“I told you.” Valjean’s deep, guttural voice sounded more like a groan than spoken words. “I’ve killed no one in nearly ten years. The Montparnasse carcasses…they’re likely the work of…”

Javert snorted. “There’s no sense in repeating your accusations. Your word means nothing.” 

A fat drop of holy water struck Valjean’s wounded skin; he cried aloud. “Kill me,” he said. “Why don’t you just stake me?”

Allowing himself a small, rare smile of satisfaction, Javert said, “No. We have given our word.”

Valjean jerked his head sideways, in a near-spasm. His eyes narrowed. “To whom?”

Javert, not deigning to explain himself to the vampire, turned on his heel and left the cell. “Keep questioning him,” he told the guards at the door, as he left.

***

“I think I’ve read of this place,” Combeferre said, as they approached the rough medieval building.

Bahorel pressed his hand to the wall, as if testing its strength. “It’s an old Watchers’ Council prison.”

Enjolras, coming back from a quick reconnaissance around the building, cocked her head at Bahorel. “How do you know of it?”

A lupine flash of Bahorel’s teeth answered her. “I know a former inmate,” was all he would say.

Feuilly, pulling his cap down further over his ears, glanced around nervously. “Enjolras, did you find any way to get in?”

She shook her head. “There’s a window, on the other side, but it’s too small for any of us to fit through.”

Bahorel nodded. “We won’t get in by sneaking or breaking anything,” he said. “We’ll need to be let in.”

Combeferre’s mind immediately conjured up pictures of them sneaking in dressed as tradesmen, or perhaps even laundresses. It was a ridiculous notion. “And how are we going to do that? A…disguise of some kind?”

Grinning, Bahorel shook his head. “You overcomplicate the matter, my dear. I have a very simple solution. We will simply wait by the door. If Valjean is here, at some point, someone will have to come out.”

“And then what?” Enjolras, confoundedly, didn’t even sound skeptical. She sounded as though she was confident Bahorel had a plan worth considering, and was simply waiting to hear what it was so she could evaluate it.

“And then we will persuade them to hold the door open to let us in. The only question is, where can we wait?” Bahorel looked around.

“Over here, in this shrub,” Enjolras said, pointing. She stepped back to allow Feuilly to go before her. Combeferre suspected this was because whoever went in first, deepest into the hedge of shrubbery, would be the last and least likely to be caught and seen; for Feuilly, an arrest meant the loss of several days’ wages at least.

Bahorel and Enjolras were at the outermost edge, sensibly enough, as they would be the ones to seize whatever unlucky soul came out that door. They all waited. Combeferre tried not to sneeze, or fidget too much. He noticed, irritably, that no one else seemed to have as much difficulty staying absolutely still as he did.

Almost as soon as Combeferre noticed Javert’s large frame half out the door, he saw Enjolras fly toward him in a blur of yellow hair and dark coat, followed by Bahorel. Enjolras pushed past Javert to grab the door before it shut, while Bahorel pulled Javert to the ground.

Feuilly’s nudge reminded Combeferre he should move too. He ran to the door, Feuilly a few paces behind with his shorter legs. Javert, who had grasped Bahorel about the knees to pull him down too, struggled to his feet, and stood to block Combeferre’s path.

Combeferre tried to dodge about Javert, but Javert was too broad, and his reach too long. He seized Combeferre’s arm. Combeferre pulled away and kicked out at Javert’s shin. Feuilly, who had ducked under Javert’s outstretched arm and run behind him, struck him in the back of the knees, making him buckle.

With another sharp kick to Javert’s shin, Combeferre ran past him to the door. Enjolras and Bahorel were already inside. Combeferre held the door for Feuilly, and then shoved it closed on Javert’s face behind them, slamming the thick iron bolt into its hole. 

The silence inside was thick and heavy. They stood in a hallway lit by a sole wall-sconce. The hallway stretched in both directions, and had no more lights in either. Enjolras, seemingly at random, chose to turn left. The rest of them followed, feeling their way along the unlit corridor. Combeferre saw nothing ahead, and heard nothing but his own breathing and his companions’. It was quiet enough that he began to distinguish the different sounds of their breaths: Enjolras’s, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible; Feuilly’s, short and fast, possibly due to some weakness of the lungs; Bahorel’s, rhythmic and unhurried.

Then there was a splash of light against the wall, pale and weak, and an equally weak man’s voice echoing towards them. It sounded like a groan.

They all pressed closer to the wall, and went forward. As they moved, Combeferre saw they were approaching a corner. Enjolras cautiously peered around it before turning it. Around the corner there were two more sconces affixed to the far wall, casting enough light to see an unguarded metal door with bolts on it, but the bolts weren’t shut.

From behind the door, Combeferre could hear another faint, far-off-sounding groan.

As one, Enjolras, Bahorel, and Feuilly made as if to go to the door. Combeferre flung his arms up to block them. “It may be locked from the inside,” he whispered. “If they hear you rattling at it, they’ll know you’re there. And it’s iron, too strong to knock down with just our strength.”

“You know they’re torturing him,” Bahorel said, jerking his chin at the door.

“We won’t help him by alerting them to our presence when they’re out of our reach. We don’t know how many they are—Javert had several men when he took Valjean away.”

“Hmm,” Bahorel said, not disagreeing, simply sounding disgruntled. “So we wait, I suppose.”

“As we did before,” said Feuilly. He made a face. “I suppose even torturers must stop and take some rest, now and again.”

Enjolras, who had remained silent until now, put her hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Listen,” she said.

Combeferre heard the creaking and shifting of someone on the other side of the door, beginning to pull it open. Enjolras darted to the wall beside the door, ready to pounce. Bahorel, wordless, went to the other side, while Combeferre and Feuilly moved to the shadows by the sconces.

The door swung open. Enjolras subdued the two guards who came out easily, with Bahorel’s help; together, they held the snarling men pinned to the wall, while Combeferre and Feuilly went into the cell. It was obviously a cell; that was plain even before Combeferre’s eye fell on Valjean, tied to a table, with holy water dripping onto his face. Combeferre and Feuilly quickly untied him and helped him up.

Enjolras and Bahorel shoved the two guards, who were now cursing them all and swearing dire vengeance, into the cell, and bolted it from the outside.

Turning to Valjean, Enjolras asked, “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “they didn’t hurt my legs.”

“Good,” said Feuilly, “then we must hurry, before Javert returns with reinforcements.” They made their way back down the unlit hallway and, with caution, left the building, checking the street first for any Watchers Council guards.

“We will return to my apartment,” said Bahorel, “we have your daughter there, and we can plan what next to do.”

“She’s safe? Cosette? Who’s watching her?” Valjean asked, looking somewhat more animated.

“She’s safe. She’s with a friend.” Feuilly cast a worried glance around the street. “Let’s be off.” 

***

Sister Simplice was sitting quietly, reading a life of Saint Catherine, and drinking a tisane, when she heard the knock on the door to her rooms in the solid, furnished house kept by the Watchers in Paris.

She set down her book and her china cup. Gathering her skirts, she rose, and opened the door.

It was Javert. She stepped back to let him enter.

“Sister,” he said without preamble, “the vampire Valjean has escaped.”

She raised her eyebrows. Surely the Watchers’ Council's security was better than that.

“The rogue Slayer helped him, with some companions,” Javert went on. “They attacked one of our prisons, freed Valjean, and locked his guards in his cell—”

Simplice started. “Alive?”

“What? Oh, yes, they left his guards alive. But we don’t know where they are. They didn’t return to the rooms the Slayer and the rogue Watcher were keeping. Can you try seeing them for us? Any of them?”

Without a word, Simplice walked over to the barest, straightest chair in the room, and sat. She shut her eyes. Once more she fixed her thoughts on the vampire Valjean, and once more she saw only mist. Unsurprised, she changed her focus to the rogue Slayer-Watcher pair, and a vision took shape: the girl and the young man, yes, but also another man, a man who looked to be in his fifties, with a deep wound on his forehead. A man Simplice easily recognized as Valjean.

In her vision, Valjean held a small child in his arms. A human child, a girl. Simplice braced herself to see him snap the child’s neck, or drain her blood, but it didn’t happen. Instead he cradled her close, and she put her small thin arms around his neck.

Simplice’s visions usually only showed her pictures. But on some rare occasions there were sounds or smells—or, even rarer, the feelings of those she saw. There were times when Simplice’s visions would allow her to sense another’s great anger, fear, hatred, or love.

This vision was permeated by a feeling so powerful, it made Simplice tremble, and so unexpected she scarcely dared name it, let alone believe it.

She didn’t want to return to her surroundings. Her inner gaze was too drawn to the impossible sight of Valjean and the child to pull away. She didn’t know how long she would have remained like that if she hadn’t felt Javert’s heavy hand on her shoulder, shaking her out of that glorious vision.

With a slight jerk forward, she came back to herself. She looked around in half-surprise: she was still in the quiet apartment allotted her, with its subdued furnishings of cool grays and blues, and the mid-morning light trickling in between the curtains.

Javert was talking. “Did you see him? Valjean?” From the slight edge of impatience in his voice, Simplice guessed he was repeating the question. She blinked.

“Are you unwell, Sister?” Javert asked, with a frown. “Did your visions show you Valjean?”

Simplice drew a long, deep breath. She was well out of her trance, but the little girl’s face still floated before her eyes, as if on a cloud. Her gaze fell on the book of Saint Catherine on the table, on the crucifix on the opposite wall. God was Truth, and the Devil lived in every lie. Every drop of blood in her body seemed to have turned to ice.

She took another breath. “No,” she said. “God didn’t see fit to show him to me.” She unclenched the fist she had made without thinking, and her fingers shook. Javert seemed to see nothing amiss, and there was no reason he would: sometimes visions were physically tiring, and the body was unsteady afterwards.

Javert nodded, disappointed but unsurprised. “But the Slayer? Did you see her?” 

Simplice said a silent prayer before saying, “No. I saw nothing, only darkness.”

“That is a shame,” Javert said. “We’ve another seer in Lyon, perhaps we can ask him…”

“Yes,” said Simplice, rising, “and no doubt your investigators are formidable.”

“They are. Well, I will trouble you no further, Sister, and we will arrange for you to return home soon enough.”

Simplice shut the door behind him, and sank to her knees, praying fervently.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to genarti for reading over this chapter!

When they returned to Bahorel’s apartment, Courfeyrac was dancing in circles about the room, holding hands with little Cosette.

Combeferre laughed out loud at the sight, but Courfeyrac showed no trace of shyness. “Welcome,” he said. “We’ve been having fun.”

Valjean stepped forward, and Cosette ran into his arms. Her face was bright with trust and hope, and Valjean’s soft with a powerful tenderness. Combeferre could only marvel at the sight of a vampire looking like that.

“You and the child should sleep in the bedroom,” said Bahorel. “I insist—the sofa here will do very nicely for me, after I evict Courfeyrac from it.”

Courfeyrac, now sprawled out on the sofa, simply made a rude gesture at Bahorel. “Perhaps now you’d all care to explain this business of vampire slaying to me. Enjolras has special powers of some sort, I take it?”

“Yes,” said Feuilly, sitting in a chair across from the sofa. “I was wondering about that myself. At first I thought you were simply very athletic, but watching you help break Valjean out—that looked like something more.”

Combeferre and Enjolras looked at each other. It was Bahorel who finally spoke. “The Slayer—usually a girl, by the way—has extraordinary strength, which gives her an advantage in fighting vampires. Enjolras is the Slayer now. Unusual, for his sex, but there it is. The Watchers’ Council says the burden of protecting the entire human race from vampires falls on the Slayer.” Bahorel made a face. “They claim to _guide_ her, but when it comes to physical combat and risk, the Slayer traditionally stands alone.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Why doesn’t this Watchers’ Council organize and train teams to attack vampires? We’ve done it ourselves, and we don’t even have the resources for proper training. The task needn’t fall on the Slayer alone—indeed, if she’s a girl, it shouldn’t fall on her at all.”

Enjolras, who had been silent, now spoke. “She may willingly embrace the task.”

“Oh, come now,” said Courfeyrac, with a snort. “Willingly! Only the worst sort of man would use a woman as his shield, even if she’s willing! And what sort of choice it could be? You tell me the Watchers find a young girl, and they tell her it’s her _duty_ to accept a brutal, harsh, and _short_ life, for the sake of everyone else?” Courfeyrac’s voice rose, and Combeferre flinched. “That it’s for her, and her alone, to embrace this life of—of—of _total martyrdom_ , for the protection of all men, to take on this burden for everyone, with no one to share it, as Christ took on our sins by his suffering upon the cross?” Courfeyrac was sitting up straight now, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “And that if she doesn’t, everyone else will suffer? Presenting this to a young girl as a ‘choice’…it’s taking advantage of her soft-heartedness, to conscript her into the life of a solitary scapegoat.”

There was a moment of heavy silence. Combeferre looked at his hands.

Finally, Enjolras spoke again. “I think it would be unjust not to allow her to help, should she wish to.”

“And regardless,” Bahorel broke in, “Enjolras isn’t a girl, so—”

“It’s not much better if the Slayer is a man,” Courfeyrac said. “It’s a little better. It means the Watchers aren’t adding a despicable, caddish cruelty to their list of sins. At least they’re not shoving a girl out in front of them, while they cower behind her. But shoving a man—that’s still injustice, and cowardice.”

Feuilly, a deep frown creasing his face, said, “Yes—they’re still forcibly burdening one man with a responsibility rightly shared by all society. Abandoning him to bear it alone. Courfeyrac’s right.”

Combeferre’s shame and guilt must have been writ plain all over his face, for Courfeyrac took one glance at him, and added, “I don’t mean you. You fight alongside Enjolras, sharing his risks, and I’m sure you didn’t tell him he _must_ slay vampires, or else be derelict—”

“No!” Enjolras interrupted. “Not at all, he was very scrupulous in explaining that I needn’t take up the Slayer’s life unless I choose—he was never anything but just and kind. And he’s always been by my side since. He’s never left me to shoulder the burden alone.”

She moved from where she was standing, to sit beside him, and Combeferre just looked at her, hoping his gratitude was visible.

“I didn’t mean to accuse,” Courfeyrac said, his voice much gentler. “Well—not to accuse _you_ , Combeferre. But the Watchers’ Council—”

“I know,” Combeferre said. “I know. That’s why we’ve gone rogue, the two of us. I don’t know how much Bahorel’s told you—”

“Very little.” Feuilly threw Bahorel a sharp glance. “It’s amazing how little he can say, using so many words.” Bahorel just grinned at him.

“Yes, well. Just now, when we were bringing back M. Valjean—” Combeferre gestured at Valjean, who was sitting quietly in a large red chair, Cosette playing with her figurine beside him.

“They took me from a Watchers’ Council prison,” said Valjean, nearly inaudible. “They defied the Council, and risked their lives doing so.”

Courfeyrac looked sharply at Combeferre, then at Enjolras. “I know little of the Watchers’ Council, but—it seems defying them is not a safe game to play.”

“It’s not.” Enjolras’s voice was level. “If you keep on associating with us, it will put you in greater danger than you might have imagined. And,” she said, glancing at Combeferre, “perhaps not just you, but others dear to you. You should know that now.”

Combeferre, thinking of his uncle and aunt and their servants, looked down again, and felt Enjolras’s tentative hand on his shoulder.

Courfeyrac just shrugged. “Yes, I knew there might be.” 

“I did too,” said Feuilly. He sounded as though he didn’t much mind this, but he still looked very grave.

“That doesn’t trouble you?” Bahorel looked at Courfeyrac as he asked the question. 

“Fighting vampires is a dangerous game, even without getting into quarrels with these Watchers. As is being—well. Having political opinions,” Courfeyrac said, with a sidelong look at Valjean. “I have no intention of avoiding any of those dangers.”

“Well,” said Combeferre, still seeing the words the letter telling him of the deaths he’d wrought, “you don’t need to decide anything like that now, not with respect to us—and even after you do, you’re always free to change your mind.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to argue, but Bahorel broke in. “It’s been a very long day. We all need a rest.”

“Especially me, if I’m to get any work done later,” Feuilly said, with a yawn.

“Take a nap here,” Bahorel advised. With surprising efficiency, he managed to cajole Valjean into his bedroom for some rest, Feuilly onto the couch, and Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac onto various mattresses, pillows and blankets spread out on the floor.

Combeferre drowsily wondered where Bahorel was going to sleep, if at all—perhaps hanging from the ceiling upside down, like a bat? It would suit him. But Combeferre barely had time to be amused by that thought before he fell fast asleep.

***

Combeferre woke less than an hour later to the sound of an argument. The fierce rise and fall of Bahorel’s voice was, though hushed, clearly recognizable; the muted but persistent sounds of the other, feminine voice was not.

Pushing off his blanket, Combeferre struggled to his feet, blinking blearily. He made his way to the corner where he saw two shadowy forms: Bahorel, gesticulating wildly, and a strange woman. A nun. “What’s going on?” Combeferre kept his voice at a whisper. “Sister, pardon me, but who are you?”

“I am Sister Simplice,” said the nun. She gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “I’ve seen you before, in my visions. I’m a seeress, for the Watchers’ Council.”

Combeferre flinched back as if she’d brandished a weapon in his face, then regretted his reaction, and tried to remain calm. “Why are you here?”

“To make trouble,” Bahorel said, scowling, “and not the kind of trouble I like.”

“I came to warn you—to warn the vampire Valjean most of all, but you too, and the rogue Slayer. I don’t know her name, or yours, but—”

Combeferre interrupted her. “Do the Watchers? Know our names, I mean.” If so, their peril was much greater than he’d thought.

“No,” said Sister Simplice. “They know nothing about you, save what I’ve told them, what Javert has seen, and what they gleaned in Mouret-sur-Loire. They know more about Valjean, and he must leave the city at once. You should as well, if you take my advice.”

“But why should we?” Bahorel was still scowling. “You say you work for the Watchers. Why are you suddenly so helpful to us, hmmm?”

Combeferre felt a sudden movement behind him, and turned around to see Enjolras standing there, arms folded. Behind her, Feuilly was stirring on the couch, and Courfeyrac was flailing his way out of a pile of pillows.

Turning back to face Bahorel and Sister Simplice, Combeferre said, “Yes. Why are _you_ —a Watchers’ Council seeress, a _nun_ —helping a vampire and a rogue Slayer?”

Sister Simplice sighed. “Because I saw Valjean. I had a vision. It was a strong one. I could sense his true nature, and I knew he truly loved and cared for that little girl.” She sounded awed. “I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it. It’s unnatural, impossible, and yet—there it was.”

“Hmm,” said Bahorel, looking at Combeferre. Combeferre didn’t know what to make of this either. He’d read of seers sensing the feelings of those they saw. But how could they believe this woman?

Sister Simplice made an impatient noise. “If you care for the vampire, or for that young lady,” she said, gesturing at Enjolras, “then you’ll take me seriously.”

Combeferre froze. He felt Enjolras step forward behind him, so her shoulder pressed against his. Beside him, Bahorel was absolutely still.

“Young lady?” Courfeyrac repeated, confused, and then light apparently dawned: “Enjolras?”

Combeferre half-turned, ready to step in with an explanation or even a lie, but Enjolras raised her chin and looked straight at Courfeyrac.

“Oh,” said Courfeyrac.

“Ah,” said Feuilly.

“Um, well,” said Courfeyrac.

“If everyone is finished with their meaningless monosyllables,” said Combeferre, “we have an immediate problem on our hands. Did you find us by seeing us in a vision, Sister?”

“Yes. I couldn’t see the vampire—I never could. I’ve tried so many times, but could never manage it.” The confusion was evident in Sister Simplice’s voice. “But then—Javert found me, and told me you’d helped Valjean escape, so I tried to see you, and then I saw Valjean with you, and learned you were hiding him. But…the child…his face…” She turned her face away, but Combeferre could see the flash of tears in her eyes. “I lied.” Her voice had gone low, a barely distinguishable mumble. “I _lied._ God help me, but I lied. I told Javert I couldn’t see the vampire. Or you, either of you. And now I’m here to warn him. Javert has plans for him.”

“What will he do to me?”

Valjean had crept up silently, unheard by anyone. Sister Simplice jumped when he spoke. “The Watchers have sold you to someone,” she finally said, her voice shaking. “A rich man, and highly placed in the government here in Paris. That’s all I know of him. But he’s powerful and well informed.”

“Let’s sit,” Bahorel interjected. “I will make tea, and then we can talk about this calmly. In a _civilized_ , respectable manner.”

“I should go—” Sister Simplice began to say.

“Oh, no, _Sister_ ,” Bahorel said. “You’re staying with us until we get this all sorted out.” There was nothing particularly threatening in his voice. Still, Combeferre threw him a sharp glance, and noted Simplice had turned rather paler than she’d been a moment before.

They sat in an awkward silence broken only by Bahorel cheerfully singing “Ça Ira” as he puttered with cups and kettle. Combeferre perched between Courfeyrac and Enjolras on the couch; despite the tension, he couldn’t help notice, and be amused by, the awkward glances Courfeyrac kept throwing at Enjolras, who disregarded them utterly and stared straight ahead. Feuilly, in a chair across the room, pulled out a piece of a fan and a pencil, and began to sketch a design by the light of a half-spent candle. Valjean sat stiffly in the chair next to Feuilly. Across from him, Sister Simplice, her hands in her lap, was upright and straight-backed, her lips silently moving in prayer.

Bahorel jaunted up and around the room with the tea tray. Combeferre took a cup absently. When everyone had taken some, Bahorel dropped the tray onto a table, hopped onto the arm of the couch, and said, “All right. So Sister Simplice says M. Valjean is in danger from this unnamed powerful man. Assuming she’s telling the truth—”

“I am,” Sister Simplice said tightly, her eyes narrowing.

“—your need to hide from the Watchers is greater than ever. Do you have anyone you can go to, any family…” Bahorel trailed off, perhaps realizing vampires didn’t have family.

Valjean looked at his hands. “No family. Just Cosette.”

“Where did you come from, before Paris?” Combeferre did his best to keep his voice even and gentle, rather than sounding like an interrogator. “You told us you’d only been here a short while.”

“I needn’t go anywhere,” Valjean said, blatantly dodging the question, “if this woman is lying.”

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, then at Bahorel, and finally at Sister Simplice herself, stern and faintly indignant. “What would she gain by lying?”

“If she’s truly loyal to the Watchers, and in league with them, then she would have just told them where we were.” Enjolras turned her severe gaze on Simplice, who returned the stare. “There would be no need for her to tell us this whole tale. Or come here at all. Javert could have simply come with a large company of armed men.”

Bahorel made a noise of disgruntled agreement. “Yes. I think the most rational assumption is the nun’s being truthful. Which means you need to hide, M. Valjean.”

“My people in Aix,” Courfeyrac said, speaking for the first time since the revelation of Enjolras’s sex. “I can get them to help.”

Bahorel regarded him indulgently. “Isn’t your father the nephew of a vicomte, or something like that?”

“Great-nephew,” said Courfeyrac. “What of it?”

“Will he welcome a stray vampire into his bosom, do you think?” 

Courfeyrac scowled. “We needn’t tell him M. Valjean’s a vampire—” He broke off, no doubt thinking of the same problem Combeferre had been mulling over. Outside of Paris, in any village or town where people rose and slept with the sun, and knew all their neighbors—how long would a newcomer like Valjean go unremarked, and unreported?

“He can return with me, to my town,” Simplice offered.

“The very first place the Watchers will search for you, once they realize their seeress has gone missing,” Feuilly pointed out, adding a petal to his flowery sketch on the fan.

Enjolras rose to pace in a circle around the room. An awkward feat, given how crowded it was, but somehow she managed it gracefully. “Why should he leave Paris? Sister, you tell us you could never see M. Valjean. You only found him by finding us. Do the Watchers have other seers who can see him?”

“No.” Sister Simplice frowned. “I’m the best seeress they have. I’m the only one who could even see _you_ , Mlle Enjolras. And I think—I think the reason I couldn’t see M. Valjean was…I had a false idea of him. I was thinking of a demonic beast with no spark of conscience in him. That was a lie. And that’s how all the other seers will be thinking of him. So no, I don’t think anyone will be able to see him. Not directly.”

Combeferre, catching on to what Enjolras was getting at, said, “So if M. Valjean stays away from Enjolras and me—and you—and anyone else the Watchers’ Council may be aware of, and looking for—he won’t be caught.”

“And he can stay in Paris,” Enjolras said, nodding, “where it’s so much easier to hide, and have unusual habits, without anyone remarking on it.”

Valjean stared into his teacup. “That would be easiest. Take Cosette, and go to an apartment somewhere else in the city. Lie low, for a time. I can do that—I have money. But M. Combeferre, and the young lady—what will you do? The Watchers, they might find you…”

“Leave that to us,” said Enjolras. “We can hide here too. Sister Simplice has just told us she’s the only one who could see us, anyway.”

Combeferre, feeling much less confident about this, looked at Bahorel, who said, “Enjolras is right. You have enough problems without worrying yourself over that. I’ll make sure they’re all right, never fear.” Combeferre raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing.

Sister Simplice grimaced. “I suppose Paris is the best place for me, too, to hide from the Watchers.” She sounded deeply unhappy about this. “Elsewhere—I’d have to lie, to disguise myself, or people would notice a nun of my order.”

Feuilly frowned. “Why should you want to? The Watchers don’t know you’re here, you said. If you’re telling us the truth, you can just go back to them like before. ”

“I would have to lie to them. Again. They’d keep asking me to see you, so long as you remain rogue. So I’d have to keep lying.” Sister Simplice shook her head firmly. “I won’t do that.”

Enjolras looked at Sister Simplice. “You’ll go underground, give up your position—all to avoid lying to the Watchers?”

“Of course I will,” said Sister Simplice, as if this was the only reasonable thing to do. She met Enjolras’s eyes, and Combeferre almost fancied he heard the sound of steel clanging against steel. “There’s a nun of my order here. I’ll stay with her. I’ll send you a warning at this apartment if I hear anything of the Watchers on your trail.” She rose, and set down her cup. With a sweep of her skirts, she was out the door.

“I’ll leave now, before it gets light,” Valjean said, after a moment’s pause. He went into the room where Cosette slept, and emerged from it carrying her, still fast asleep.

“Where will you go?” Combeferre said, looking up at them.

“I took the precaution of renting another apartment, on the rue de l’Ouest. It was too far for me to get there the other night, when I was fleeing Javert—but I can go there now.” He stood there awkwardly for a moment, before adding, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. I—thank you, for all you’ve done. I don’t expect I’ll be troubling you any further.” And with that he, too, was gone, out the door as swift and silent as a thief in the night.

“Poor man,” Courfeyrac said, after a moment.

“A good man.” Combeferre looked down at his cup. “I hope he stays safe.”

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. “And what of _your_ safety? From the vampires, from the Watchers…”

“We can manage,” said Enjolras. “Combeferre has concealment spells—and we’ll keep quiet, do our best not to attract undue notice—”

“You’ll keep slaying with a group,” Bahorel said firmly. “Best way to avoid attention, even with your Slayer strength. I’ll help you.” 

Feuilly looked up again from his fan. “I’m willing to help, too, of course—in between work, and political activities, and studies…and, you know, the situation in Poland isn’t getting any better, and an uprising is almost inevitable…”

“One might almost suspect you of wizardry, Feuilly,” said Combeferre, shaking his head. “To do so much—but I’m grateful.”

Feuilly shrugged. “There’s no need for gratitude,” he said, sounding amused. “It’s not as though the vampires aren’t a threat to me, too.”

“And I’ll help too.” Courfeyrac rose from his spot on the couch, and walked over to stand beside Enjolras. “As we were saying. This isn’t something a girl—or anyone—should have to do alone. You’ll have us.”

Enjolras smiled then, bright and quick. “I need no paladin to defend me,” she said, “but—I welcome any help from a friend.”

“Help, and hindrance, and most of all, amusement—I can provide them all,” Courfeyrac said, grinning.

Enjolras’s smile broadened. Her eyes met Combeferre’s. He smiled in return and, despite the difficulties he know they faced, despite the losses they’d both already suffered, he felt his spirits soar, ready to meet whatever lay ahead.


End file.
